


Fear of Fire Leaves You Cold

by Duckie_Nicks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 87,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckie_Nicks/pseuds/Duckie_Nicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After House crashes his car through Cuddy's home, both strive to rebuild their lives and deal with the consequences of their broken relationship. Post "Moving On." Eventual House/Cuddy pairing. CHAPTER 9 IS UP!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I didn't understand then, but I understand now

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: This fic will contain sexual situations. If that bothers you, please do not read. Since this piece is set post "Moving On," there are spoilers for that episode. I should also warn you now that this is not going to be a quick journey. I was inspired to write this, because I've been craving a way to get my feelings about the season finale and the end of Cuddy's character out. This is my way of working it out in my head, and while I would like to have a House/Cuddy ending, please understand that this is not going to be a piece that ends happily ever after in five chapters. I'm sure there are works like that, but this will not be one of them. If this piece still interests you, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own it.

" _True passion is not a wisp-light – it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the heart in which it has been enkindled to dust and ashes." – William Winter_  


She didn't cry.

At the moment, that seemed so miniscule compared to what had happened, but by the same token, at that moment, given what had happened, it was the only victory she could see in sight. That she had some shred of dignity left, despite the fact that House had tried to kill her, was all she could cling to.

He had done this to her.

But she hadn't cried.

Tears burned her eyes as she struggled to recount just how they had gotten to this point. _Maybe_ even one or two slipped when her control seemed to falter a little bit.

But she didn't _cry_.

Even as Wilson was taken to the hospital, even as Julia and her husband struggled to get out of there as quickly as possible, even as her _date_ disappeared the second he could, Cuddy remained stoic.

Sitting on her cold stoop with a blanket around her shoulders, she guessed she shouldn't have been surprised. She'd never thought House had had it in him to try to kill her, no. But he'd lost his mind before. Why should now be any different?

Because he'd been to therapy for, what, thirteen months? Because he'd been to a mental institution and released? That was what supposedly made him sane?

No, she thought, a bitter taste coating her tongue. He'd never changed. He'd gotten help for a temporary problem, but deep down, he was still the same House: the one who didn't care who he hurt or what he had to do to get his own way.

Looking back on it now, she wasn't sure why she'd ever thought differently. He'd seemed changed. The way he'd said, "I love you," and meant it, the way he'd made an effort to be friends with her daughter – it all had seemed so unlike him. But as tonight had proven, he'd obviously never really meant any of it. If he could so easily put all of their lives in jeopardy, he clearly never meant anything he'd said and done.

And _that_ almost did make her cry.

After all, it had only been on her sister's insistence that Cuddy had conceded a double date. She hadn't felt all that ready to date again, but she'd agreed – and regretted it. As nice as he'd been, the whole time, she'd thought that she wasn't ready to date, that maybe even she wasn't ready to let House go. She wasn't ready to let go of someone who clearly never cared at all about her.

She'd sat there thinking that Jerry was sweet, but inwardly she'd felt that something was missing… something that only House had ever made her feel.

Desire for _him_ had _consumed_ her. Attraction and history had made her want him in a way that she'd understood she would never want _this_ guy. Jerry might have been nice; she could have even grown to love him maybe, but he would never do for her what House had unknowingly done all those years ago when she'd been a wide-eyed, naïve college student.

And realizing that, she'd started to think that maybe she'd given up on House too soon. She'd been hurt and scared, and he hadn't been there, and she'd had a right to be mad about that. But perhaps her fear of dying alone had pushed her to do something she shouldn't have done.

She'd said she couldn't alter the laws of the universe to make a relationship with House work. But at that moment, her perspective on the world had shifted just enough to make her think that she'd been wrong.

_That_ was what she'd been thinking: she'd been too quick to break up with him.

She'd been considering giving him another chance at the same time he'd decided to get in a car and drive it through her home.

And that should have made her cry, because she'd gotten it _so_ wrong.

But it didn't.

There might have been tears at the precipice, but bitter irony refused to let them fall. She'd just been so wrong that it was almost laughable now how badly she'd missed. Truly, they hadn't just been on different pages; they'd been in completely different _libraries._

But he'd made his feelings clear, she thought. Whatever she'd believed to be the truth before, she absolutely understood how he felt now.

Her lawn was torn to pieces. Dirt was everywhere, and the plants she'd managed to keep alive through winter (which was a feat in itself, considering how bad of a gardener she was) had been uprooted and ripped from the earth. By some miracle, he hadn't hit the curb, which was good for the neighbors, because they were lined up on the sidewalk now in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the disaster behind her.

Her home was in shambles. No one had told her that the structure had lost integrity, but she'd seen the way they kept glancing at the roof. She'd had enough work done on it to know that it wouldn't stand much longer.

Her dining room was destroyed. Curtains were dirty; wood was strewn about the floor. The wedding china her father had given her, the only thing she'd kept from her marriage, had shattered in her china cabinet. The table Lucas had proposed by had cracked in half and fallen to the floor next to Rachel's baby pictures. The history and memories Cuddy had within the walls had been obliterated in a matter of moments.

Because of _House_.

No, whatever confusion there had been between them… he'd cleared that _right_ up for her.

Which allowed her to be equally honest with her actions. She wouldn't damage his property as he had hers. She wouldn't threaten his life or his family's as he had done this evening. But she would press charges; she would ask for the temporary restraining order the officers were offering her.

It wasn't about revenge or hurting him. Cuddy just wanted it to be absolutely clear: she was _done_.

She was done, she repeated. The more she heard it in her head, the more true it seemed to become.

They were over.

For good this time.

There would be no friendship, no working relationship to salvage what they'd shared together. They were done. He would be arrested and go to jail and be fired, and she would never have to put up with him again.

That was it.

And as she sat there on the cold stone steps, she realized why she wasn't crying. It should have pained her to lose someone who had been such a huge part of her life. It should have _hurt_ to say goodbye. But thanks to his actions, she was neither all that pained nor hurt. She was simply resigned.

Their relationship had ended.

This was the way it was meant to go.

There was nothing left.

And if she didn't cry then, she thought it was because she didn't want to let him win.

After everything he'd done, she didn't want him to think he'd broken her.

* * *

"I'm sorry I'm late. Is she awake?" Cuddy asked her mother the second Arlene answered the door.

The question came out brusque, which wasn't what Cuddy had intended. But she'd spent the last several hours dealing with police officers and paramedics and everything else that came with your ex-boyfriend destroying your home. Needless to say, she didn't have it in her to be patient with her mother.

And honestly, Cuddy was okay with that. Her mother was nothing if not capable of giving as good as she got.

But she didn't.

"She was getting cranky. I put her to bed hours ago," Arlene said simply.

Immediately Cuddy knew something wasn't right. She'd been curt to her mother. Habit and history dictated that that tone of voice would be lobbed right back at her. It wasn't though. Her mother had been _calm_ , matter of fact but _not_ passive aggressive. In other words, she'd acted the exact _opposite_ of how she normally would in that situation, and it went without saying that that wasn't right.

Because when did Arlene ever decide to take the high road?

Cuddy racked her memory to recall when that had happened in the past. She couldn't think of a single time when that had occurred though. Her mother _liked_ to take issue with Cuddy's choices. She _enjoyed_ making Cuddy feel guilty or bad for various perceived mistakes. Cuddy didn't think she meant to be cruel; her mother just couldn't help herself. So if she were behaving differently now, there was a reason for it.

"Julia told you," Cuddy deduced almost instantly.

"Of course she did," Arlene said with a nod of the head. "Most daughters tell their mothers things such as their home being destroyed."

Clearly the desire to make a dig had been overwhelming. Though decorum dictated the smallest amount of sympathy, apparently in that moment Arlene had been unable to resist reminding them both of all the times Cuddy had kept secrets from her mother.

"I was going to tell you," Cuddy said through teeth she tried not to gnash together in frustration. Were they really going to go through that today of all days?

Yes seemed to be the answer.

"Like you told me that you were urinating blood and needed a biopsy." Arlene smiled tensely and nodded her head as though she could see her daughter's logic and found it to be completely idiotic.

"I _did_ tell you about –"

" _After_ the fact." Anger bled through the words, betrayal coating each syllable so thoroughly that Cuddy almost felt guilty for making the choice she had.

She couldn't feel completely ashamed by her secrecy – as she still maintained that it had been the right decision to make. Her mother had been recovering from surgery, and there'd been no telling how ill Cuddy really was, and there had been no point worrying her mother.

Especially when her concerned mother tended to be a shrill, overbearing mess who took her stress out on everyone around her.

"Mom," Cuddy started to say.

But Arlene was quick to interrupt. "It doesn't matter." It hardly sounded convincing, but Cuddy wasn't about to point that out. If her mother wanted to act like they were past that, it was all right with her. "Come inside."

She stepped out of the threshold to allow Cuddy to cross it. And Cuddy quickly did just that, thinking the entire time that the faster she got in, the sooner she would be _out_.

"Where is she?"

Arlene quietly closed the door behind her daughter. "She's sleeping in the guest room. I would have kept her up for you, but after three hours of hearing her talk like a pirate, I was sufficiently annoyed and let her fall asleep."

So there it was then, Cuddy thought bitterly. She hadn't wanted to think about him any more that night, but her mind helplessly wrenched her memory onto that topic. There it was, she repeated to herself.

House had effectively cut all ties with her by crossing every boundary she knew existed. And it wouldn't be enough for him to have done that – to have violated her like that.

He also had to leave behind her daughter... _obsessed_ with that cartoon.

He had to leave a reminder of his presence, of the life they'd had together, of the family they could have been to one another.

Just another slap to the face in what felt like a line of many, it seemed never ending.

That was what Cuddy thought in that moment, that he might have fled the scene, but he was still _here_ with her, hurting her.

"Are you all right?" Arlene asked tentatively, interrupting the disgust bubbling within Cuddy. "You look like you're about to _plotz_ in my hallway, which I'd rather you not do. Jesus just painted the walls. So if you're going to get emotional, I would prefer you move to the kitchen." She grimaced as though the idea of someone being upset was a messy predicament that she would like to avoid.

And knowing her mother, Cuddy thought that that was probably _exactly_ how she felt. Emotion, showing it or handling it, had never been Arlene's strong suit. She had never been intentionally cruel or dismissive, but her stoicism had often made her unhelpful in crisis or upheaval. Cuddy doubted that she had ever meant to be cold, but she had always been that way – too controlled and calculating to comfort.

For that very reason, Cuddy had had no intention of being _emotional_ now. Crying, screaming, fighting – none of it would have made her feel any better or earned her the sympathy Arlene instinctively shied away from.

Quite simply, there would have been no point.

Which was why Cuddy was being honest when she said, "You have nothing to worry about, Mom. I'm fine."

It didn't seem to be the right thing to say though.

Within seconds, Arlene's grimace withered away, only to be replaced with a look of… dismay? It was impossible to know what to call the troubled fret and pursed lips, what to make of them.

"I… I'm sorry," Arlene said gingerly. The apology sounded as unnatural as it felt probably for both of them. "Jesus and I were supposed to go on vacation tomorrow, but thanks to his _wife_ , he has to stay in town."

She headed into the kitchen without even bothering to see if Cuddy was following behind her. Clearly, it was just assumed that she would. And that assumption wasn't exactly wrong, because Cuddy _did_ follow.

"You thought his wife would be all right with you taking her husband –"

"She doesn't love him," Arlene interrupted as she reached inside her freezer for a chilled bottle of vodka. Plucking two glasses out of a cupboard, she quickly added, "I don't know. Maybe I was rash in thinking he would go away with me. If one thing is evident as of late, it's that my judgment has been compromised when it comes to men." She poured herself a drink and took a sip of it. "I…." She paused and seemed to consider her words. "I apologize for encouraging you to get back together with House. Obviously that would have been a disaster."

Cuddy didn't know what to say to that. After her mother's unfortunate stay in the hospital, their relationship had suffered greatly (and that was an understatement).

After Cuddy's father died, they'd realized that there would never be someone else between them to say, "What Lisa meant was…" or "What your mother really thinks is…." They'd suddenly become dependent on themselves to maintain their own relationship, and the only way they had been able to do that was with honesty. It hadn't been easy, especially since they rarely saw things the same way, but they'd managed to find a way to trust one another. They'd found a way to do it, because they'd agreed: no lying, no evading.

But Cuddy had done just that when Arlene was in the hospital – multiple times. And after _all_ of that, Arlene's foray into matchmaking hadn't seemed that bad. Or if the incident still hurt, it had nothing to do with the goal of her behavior and _everything_ to do with the awful things she'd said at the time.

Cuddy didn't bring any of that up, however. Though there were times when it was hard to remember why, they were trying to work through _that_. They were trying to repair what they'd worked so hard to create, and Cuddy didn't want to ruin that by rehashing the past.

Especially not tonight.

"It's fine," she said, hoping that they wouldn't keep talking about this.

About _House_.

Arlene shook her head vehemently. "It's not." She reached out for the second glass and poured some vodka in it. After she set the bottle back down with a delicate clink, she held the cup out for Cuddy to take.

She didn't take it though. "Mom, I have to drive to the hotel. I shouldn't –"

"Stay here tonight."

It had been an offer not extended to Cuddy since her mother's second hip replacement.

Because of that, it was impossible to say no. Honestly, Cuddy didn't feel like staying with her mother, especially after the day she'd had. She loved her mother, but being with her was hardly stress-free, which was precisely what Cuddy wanted at that moment. But again, they'd worked so hard to get to this point once more. They'd spent months trying to forgive and move on.

And she wasn't going to let _House_ screw that up for her.

He might have ruined her home, poisoned her daughter with that God-awful cartoon.

He wouldn't have _this_.

"Okay," she said calmly, her voice purposely even.

Arlene seemed relieved by this development and offered her the glass of vodka again.

Cuddy took it.

She didn't want it. Maybe she should have, after what _he_ had done. It certainly would have made sense. But she didn't want it at all.

She hadn't been lying when she'd told House that he used Vicodin as a way to deal with his pain and anything else that bothered him, physical or otherwise. And she was determined _not_ to do the same thing.

Regardless of how tempting or understandable it was, drowning her sorrows was not something she was willing to do. Again, her relationship with her mother was tenuous enough that she felt compelled to accept any kind gesture that came her way. But she couldn't drink it and instead merely held the glass in her hand.

Cuddy could tell though that her lack of drinking was making her mother uncomfortable. The silence between them was tense and awkward almost instantly. And the longer it went on, the more painfully obvious that fact became.

Shifting on her feet, Cuddy tried to push past the weirdness between them. "You could go by yourself," she suggested.

"I don't think so," Arlene said tensely. "At my age? It just becomes slightly pathetic, even more so since I booked the honeymoon suite on the property."

Cuddy was almost surprised to hear her mother say in not so many words that she was concerned with what others thought. But it was less shocking to hear Arlene follow that up with, "Besides, a less-than-youthful woman on a tropical island in the Pacific? It's not –"

"Maybe some other time then," Cuddy said, cutting her off as diplomatically as possible. She didn't mean to bring up the subject and then drop it quickly, but the fact of the matter was letting Arlene focus on her own misery was never a good idea. It might have been an effective way to start a conversation, but it wasn't something Cuddy wanted her mother to dwell on.

It seemed too late though.

"Let's not kid ourselves. Men don't change, Lisa." Arlene plucked the unused glass of vodka out of her daughter's hand and drank it herself. The sour expression that appeared on her face then had nothing to do with the liquor, Cuddy thought. "They don't have to. They just move on to the next _slut_ who will put up with them."

"Have you been like this all night?"

In a way Cuddy was sure the answer to that question was no. Her mother had been riled up when Cuddy had first dropped Rachel off, yes. But that had been because Arlene hadn't intended on babysitting that night at the last minute. At least Cuddy _thought_ that, but perhaps she'd been wrong.

Then again, she thought instantly, even if she had been, what did it matter, really? Even if Rachel had been stuck with her insane grandmother, was that so awful? Cuddy didn't think so, because Rachel being here had meant that she was _safe_.

Regardless of Arlene's insanity, Rachel's presence here had protected her.

And Cuddy couldn't exactly regret that choice even though her mother's behavior concerned her.

"I thought your profession required you to have a fair amount of deductive reasoning," Arlene said in a cold voice. "You should show me the slightest hint of your intelligence here, I believe."

" _Mom_."

"Of course not," she snapped, answering the question in a raised voice. However, she must have realized that she'd gone too far, because she immediately changed her tone. Calmly she said, "You should remember that."

Cuddy could feel her brow knitting in confusion. "Remember what?"

"They don't change," Arlene said sternly.

"If you're talking about House –"

"Of course I am."

At that moment, Cuddy felt she could only respond one way: "You don't have to worry about that."

She meant it. And truly that was the part that seemed to hurt the most. After all those years together professionally, after all the back and forth, after nearly a year of dating, she never had to worry about giving him another chance.

She'd spent all this time thinking he could be better than he was.

She had no such illusions now.

All her life, she'd wanted the kind of relationship where she could go to her mother, confess to her what was bothering her, and get advice in a nice way (and this did qualify as nice, sadly). Now though, Arlene was doing that, and ironically Cuddy knew she had no need for it.

House wouldn't change.

And for the first time ever, Cuddy accepted that.

* * *

His light blue sheets tangled around her limbs, soft cotton caressing her ankles and calves. He was on top of her and inside her. His body was heavy against hers, every pound weighing deliciously on her as he slowly drove himself in and out of her.

He kissed her gently, tentatively as though it were the first time he was sleeping with her. And she couldn't help but think that it was sweet that he was so tender, so careful with her. They'd had sex decades ago, after one night of drinking and partying that had caused the memory to blur around the edges. But here he was, delicately kissing her, letting his palm only lightly press against one of her breasts as he thrust into her.

She gasped as much at the sensation as she was at his overall demeanor.

This was what she needed, she thought then. Even as her hands clasped his shoulders insistently, she recognized that she'd needed the consideration. Giving into him, giving herself to House... it was frightening and wonderful, and she needed this: the warm feeling of safety washing over her.

"I love you," she repeated against his lips. Like a secret she'd been so afraid to utter, it became freeing to say it over and over. As though she were suddenly unbound from her own fear, she couldn't help but revel in the truth she was whispering.

She loved him.

It was terrifying, but Cuddy couldn't deny what every cell in her being wanted, craved.

Her hips met his thrust, and she said the words again, "I love you."

He didn't respond, but she didn't need him to. Her heart was so full from _finally_ having what she wanted that she didn't need his words. Language gave voice to her deepest desires, but there was nothing he could say that would make her happier than she already was. Sentences and sentiments could not compete, and she didn't want it to. The sweat gliding between their heated bodies and the wetness pooling between her legs spoke louder than anything either one of them could say.

And as he brought her to orgasm multiple times, she could only think in the back of her head how desperately she needed this relationship to work.

This love for him would ruin her for anyone else….

That thought was what jerked her awake.

Consciousness rushing in quickly, she had to gasp for air. Oxygen burned in her lungs, her throat rasping as she eagerly inhaled.

Beads of sweat clung to her body, despite the fact that the weather had been unusually cool for summer. Her cheeks burned as though she'd been running. Her underwear stuck uncomfortably to her slicked folds, and she knew that whatever heat she was feeling was of her own mind's creation.

And that made her feel sick to her stomach.

What the hell was wrong with her?

He'd tried to kill her.

And she was _still_ dreaming about him.

She _still_ wanted him.

And though she had tried her hardest not to give into temptation, she did cry then.

Uncontrollable sobs gripped her body. Everything that had happened came rushing back to her, replaying over and over in her mind. The way he'd grabbed her in the hospital, the sound his car had made as it crashed her home and destroyed her things, the cold look in his eyes as he walked away – it hit her suddenly and with force, the totality of events, and tears fell before she could even begin to fight them.

Helpless, she could only try to manage the feeling. Quickly she rolled over and pressed a palm to her lips to muffle the sounds she was making. Lying in bed sobbing with her daughter sleeping next to her was the last thing Cuddy wanted, but as usual, House got his way.

He'd wanted to hurt her, to make her feel as much pain as she had caused him by dumping him. And though she had fought hard, in the end, he was doing just that: hurting her, succeeding in making her feel awful.

As she cried into her hand, she told herself that she was giving him exactly what he wanted. When he'd run his car through her home, _this_ had been his aim.

To make her like _this_.

But she found that that wasn't enough to calm her down. Her resolve broken, she was unable to rebuild it. The proverbial floodgates had opened, and there was no closing them now. No matter how much she'd tried to guard herself from it, House had pressed the right buttons (as he always did), and she couldn't help but react.

That didn't make her feel better though. If anything, it was just a reminder of how much she really was at his mercy. Never mind that he'd destroyed her home. It was the fact that he could hurt her like no one else ever had. It was the fact that she had _let_ him do this to her.

She'd taken so much of his _crap_ , and what had she gotten for it? What did she have to show?

And then, she didn't cry because she hated him. She cried because, thanks to his choices, she now hated herself.

As she pressed her tear-slicked cheeks into her pillow, Cuddy could only think that she couldn't see him again until she was sure this wouldn't happen once more.

He had done this.

But there was no reason he ever had to know it.

* * *

The second they'd arrived on the Yasawa Islands, Cuddy had understood why her mother had been so upset about not being able to come. White sands were surrounded by bright water so blue and clear it burned your eyes to look at it. Verdant mountains hid the volcanoes that had created this little stretch of paradise. It was quite possibly the most beautiful piece of land Cuddy had ever laid eyes on, and it didn't hurt that she was living in an equally gorgeous home.

The honeymoon suite Arlene had rented was not so much a room as it was a private retreat separate from the rest of the resort. Alone on its own section of deserted beach, the small house had a private pool that overlooked the horizon. And in the three days since they'd been there, Cuddy's biggest decision had been deciding whether to use the pool or the ocean – both of which were mere feet away.

She almost felt bad for enjoying so much. When her mother had suggested she take the vacation herself, Cuddy had been… reluctant to say yes. The morning after House's dabble with attempted murder, she'd been unable to deny that she _wanted_ an escape, but it had been so hard to give into the temptation. Having lost all control the night before, she'd been so _determined_ to maintain some semblance of poise that it had evolved into an obsession. And the very idea of taking a _trip_ had made her feel like she was waving the white flag of defeat, like she was screaming to the world (and specifically to _House_ ) that she was running away from what had happened. But on the other hand, the idea of _not_ taking a trip because of how someone would perceive her behavior had seemed even worse, and eventually she'd relented. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little guilty for enjoying this as much as she was while her mother sat at home.

However, Cuddy refused to let her remorse prevent her from making the most of her vacation. As terrible as it was for her mother, Cuddy knew with every fiber of her being that she had needed this.

The sheer distance from Princeton to Fiji had allowed her to realize just how unhealthy it would have been for her to stay there after what House had done. At home, she would have forced herself to fixate on work, on getting back to normal. Publicly, she would seem strong; privately she would be consumed with making sure House didn't win.

_Here_ though… she realized she didn't care what House thought. Or maybe that was overstating it, because it was hard to not care when her life had been intertwined with his for _years_. But she understood that allowing herself to be concerned either way with what he thought was simply not worth her time. Because since she'd been here, every time she accidentally thought about him or what he would think about her being here, she felt guilty, _ashamed_. And when she focused on peeling fresh papaya for Rachel to eat or swimming, Cuddy found that the vice around her heart seemed to loosen.

When her mind wasn't consumed with House, she was okay.

She was _happier_.

And that was precisely why she knew she needed to cut him out completely. Years ago, she'd told him that he'd made everyone worse for being around him, but she'd never comprehended how true that was until now. _Now_ she could see that he was a _cancer_ in her life. He made her miserable. Even when he wasn't around, he made her unhappy, and considering just how little regard he had for her, she couldn't see a single reason to keep him in her life, in her mind, in her heart.

Realistically, Cuddy knew that it was easier said than done, to cut him out completely. But being away from the hospital, her destroyed home, and every other reminder of _him_ helped. And eventually she understood that she wouldn't need to avoid him to forget him. She just would instinctively not think of him.

Maybe that was already happening. As the days wore on, it was becoming easier to focus on Rachel and what was in front of her. Memories of what had happened would hit her at odd times, and then she would be swept away with all-consuming anger, betrayal, sadness… _pain_. But those plaguing moments were reducing slowly, and perhaps it was just the beauty of her surroundings causing this, but she was optimistic that this was a good sign.

She hadn't even really thought about him at all today. There were a few moments here and there, but for the most part, Cuddy found herself focused on Rachel.

And though she couldn't be aware of what had happened, Rachel had made it incredibly easy for Cuddy to do that. For the past three days, Rachel had simply been happy to be with her mother. Cuddy had assumed she would be a terror on the plane, but in reality, she'd been pleasant. There'd been a moment when they'd first boarded where Rachel had cried for Peepers, the stuffed duck Cuddy kept in her car and always took when they were traveling. But aside from that, Rachel had been easy to handle. As though she was just glad to have some time to her mother alone, she'd been more than affable; she'd been nothing short of a dream come true.

Until today that was.

Curiosity had finally gotten to Rachel. Swimming in the pool and making sand angels on the beach had been fun for the first few days, but now she clearly wanted to explore beyond the boundaries Cuddy had set for her. She didn't want to go in the pool or on the beach surrounding them. She didn't want to eat any more of the complimentary chocolate chip cookies or take a nap. She didn't know what she wanted, which only meant that she wanted to do something new.

And Cuddy could sympathize. As nice as it was to be here, she too felt the urge to seek out something different. Of course, the resort was known for its seclusion, which limited what they could do. There was a daycare or something along those lines in the main area of the hotel, but that didn't appeal to her. She doubted Rachel would like being stuck indoors either.

So really, the only choice available to them was to travel to the market nearby. The desk clerk had told Cuddy about when she'd checked in. In truth, she hadn't expected to want to leave. After House and the plane ride, she'd planned on staying holed up in her little bungalow for the entire vacation. But things had changed, and that tidbit of information was going to be put to good use.

And none too soon, Cuddy thought the second they got there. Rachel was obviously so excited to be out and about; she could barely _contain_ her energy, bouncing up and down, walking backwards, skipping, and running about. Cuddy did her best to keep a hand on her, but Rachel was like a golden retriever puppy set free from its cage.

It didn't matter how many times Cuddy told her, "You need to stay next to Mommy. Stop running off." Rachel just seemed determined to get lost among the tourists and booths around them.

Granted, there wasn't much here. There were a handful of merchants selling things and a few more people looking to buy things, but it was hardly crowded. So truth be told, it would have been difficult for Rachel to go _missing_.

Cuddy, however, was not willing to chance it. It might have been hard for Rachel to disappear, but surely that possibility became more likely when Cuddy was shopping. All it would take was for her to be distracted for a few minutes, and then who knew where Rachel might end up?

For her part, Rachel seemed determined to find out the answer to that question.

Catching her by the hem of her dress, Cuddy pulled her daughter back toward her once more. " _Rachel._ "

As Cuddy hoisted her onto her hip, she tried to escape again. "No," she whined. "I wanna play."

"You need to stay with me," Cuddy told her firmly.

But her words went right over Rachel's head. "Down!" She squirmed with as much force as she could muster.

"I'll put you down when I know you won't run off again."

Predictably she pretended not to hear any of this and kept fighting to be set down.

"If I let you go, are you going to stay with Mommy?"

It was a pointless question, Cuddy knew. No matter what Rachel said, it was guaranteed that she would run off the second she could. She'd clearly been cooped up for too long. Or if not restless from boredom, then she was at least far too interested in investigating all of the strange sights around her before returning to the things she was familiar with in Princeton to behave. And that could only mean that, no matter what she promised, she would bolt the second Cuddy gave her an opportunity. Which was why, even though Rachel nodded her head, Cuddy kept hold of one of her hands.

Rachel hated that, of course. "Let me go," she whined.

Obviously that wasn't going to happen. However, Cuddy decided that, at that moment, there was no point in saying it. She _could_ do that, but then Rachel would just whine some more. And listening to her child complain was decidedly _not_ something Cuddy wanted to listen to. So rather than respond to Rachel's whining, Cuddy changed the subject.

As though she hadn't even heard Rachel's pleas, she said conversationally, "You know, I think we need to find something to bring back to Nana. Why don't you help me pick something out?"

It was hardly exciting. Cuddy realized as much. Especially for a two and a half year old, looking at the various wares didn't exactly make for a fun adventure. But in this, Rachel didn't have a choice. Cuddy did her best to make it seem like she did, but the whole while, she kept her grip on her daughter firm. And Rachel might have wanted to run off again, but she clearly understood that that wasn't going to be happening.

"No," she muttered, though her heart wasn't really into it. Obviously she didn't want to help, but she had already realized she had no choice but to.

"How about a necklace?" Cuddy suggested, pulling an unwilling Rachel along.

"No."

"No? But Nana will like it."

" _No_ she won't."

Secretly Cuddy knew Rachel was right. There was no souvenir here that her mother would like. Personally Cuddy thought that everything around her was beautiful, obviously done by hand and with care. But that wouldn't matter to someone like her mother. Arlene would see the gift and automatically think of how _she_ had been the one to book the trip, how _she_ had been the one who had nearly made it here. It wouldn't matter that it had also been her suggestion for Cuddy to take her place once Jesus had cancelled. Her mother would be upset and resentful anyway.

Of course, on the other hand, Cuddy knew she couldn't come home empty-handed. If her mother would be displeased about receiving a gift, she would be even more unhappy to get nothing in return.

Given the reasons Cuddy had decided to take a vacation, she thought that her mother wouldn't lay on the guilt too thickly. She wouldn't be able to help herself obviously; she would have to make Cuddy feel bad to some degree, but she would try to hold back. And yet the end result would be the same for Cuddy: her mother would make it clear that she thought her daughter was ungrateful. As Cuddy was _not_ lacking in gratitude, she decided then that for all concerned, a gift was better than no gift.

"Then how about a bracelet?" Cuddy suggested, as she dragged Rachel up to one of the bamboo-and-leaf-thatched stands in the market.

Rachel didn't respond. Her big eyes were too busy scanning her surroundings, as though she were trying to decide where she would run off to next. But Cuddy knew that as long as she had a hold of her, there was no danger of that happening. So she didn't have a problem focusing on the handcrafted jewelry on display in front of her.

It went without saying that absolutely _none_ of it was to her mother's tastes. Pendants made of coral and woodcarvings were pretty and clearly carefully done, but it didn't fit with Arlene's overt air of waspiness. She would hate being described that way, particularly after all she had gone through to convert to Judaism. However, some things couldn't be helped; her mother's overwhelming sense of Protestantism was one of them. And there was nothing here that would fit in with that.

Then again, it didn't need to. Her mother wasn't going to wear whatever Cuddy bought her. She'd say something sarcastic and demeaning about it and then put it in a drawer to be forgotten about. She'd never wear it, never even think about it again, and the next time Cuddy would see it would be when she and Julia were cleaning out their mother's home after she died.

It was a morbid thought. But there was something freeing about it as well. If nothing was going to please her mother, then there was no point in fretting over it. Cuddy might as well just choose whatever _she_ liked since it would make no difference to Arlene.

Settling on a coral necklace, Cuddy dropped Rachel's hand. Surprisingly, Rachel didn't sprint away. "Just a few more minutes," Cuddy told her daughter encouragingly. "Then we can get a snack and go play on the beach."

The merchant went about wrapping up the jewelry as she reached into her purse for some cash.

And that was when it happened.

She was so intent on counting her money that she didn't see the excitement cross Rachel's features. Her hands trapped in her purse, she was unable to grab Rachel when she took off.

Cuddy opened her mouth to yell for Rachel to get back here, but she didn't have the chance to say anything. Before the words came out of her mouth, _Rachel_ shouted something instead.

"House!"

Dread and disbelief spread through Cuddy in a chilling wave of emotion. Part of her, a desperate part, whispered inside that he couldn't possibly be here, he couldn't possibly know where she was, even though the whole of her being knew that all bets were off when it came to him.

Fear spun her around on her heels. Her wild eyes searched for her daughter, for a threat that suddenly seemed to loom over them both.

It didn't matter that, for months now, Rachel had missed House so much that she'd thought she saw him everywhere she went. It didn't matter that any tall man could be House in her eyes. That thought was unable to penetrate Cuddy's frantic energy.

And for good reason.

As Cuddy's gaze settled on her daughter, not twenty feet from where she was, she could see that this was no false alarm. Because it wasn't a stranger in front of Rachel. It wasn't some random man she she'd seen and wanted to be House.

No, twenty feet away from Cuddy was her daughter standing in front of someone very familiar.

_House_.

It was House.

No amount of incredulity or wanting could change that fact. Cuddy squeezed her eyes shut tightly; silently she prayed that it was all a bad dream, but it didn't work. When she gazed upon her daughter once more, it was clear that nothing had changed.

Not twenty feet away from Cuddy was House.

Was the man who had tried to kill her.

_To be continued_


	2. Go Your Own Way

_"True passion is not a wisp-light – it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the heart in which it has been enkindled to dust and ashes." – William Winter_

Her fingers shook against the frayed edges of the cash in her hand, but she did not feel fear. Emotion caught in the back of her throat, making it hard to breathe, but she was not afraid. Terror would have made sense, given what he had done. But cold, heart-stopping dread was the only thing creeping through her body at that moment, her thought singular:

She would never get away.

She had flown halfway across the world, and he was _here_. Whether he'd followed her or _somehow_ coincidentally ended up in the same place, it didn't matter. She couldn't escape either way, regardless of what she did.

Yes, fear would have been a reasonable response, but all she felt then was keen dejection that rooted her to the spot as though the feeling had filled her with cement.

Her legs tingled with the desire to move, itched to rush over to where he was standing and grab Rachel. But Cuddy found herself frozen in place by what she saw, and even taking a step in that direction seemed impossible.

He must have sensed her staring at him, because at that moment, he looked from Rachel toward her direction. Their gazes meeting, Cuddy refused to turn her head. The desire was there, but she would not let him see how any of this had affected her. That might have been what he'd wanted the entire time, a reaction, but he wouldn't get it.

His response, however, was anything but hidden. His eyes were wide in surprise, which would shortly give way to hesitancy and wariness. But for that brief fraction of a second, when they looked at one another with equal parts cool hatred and heated intensity, he could not keep from her, not even from this distance, how he felt.

Cuddy did not feel victorious over that though. It could have been a triumph, but it was hollow, given what had had to happen in order for it to occur. He had withheld and withdrew during their relationship, and this was a definite change from that behavior, but it was no _victory_.

The thought left a bitter taste on her tongue, and she forced herself to turn away from him then. Busying herself, she paid for the necklace she planned on giving her mother. It bothered her even less now that Arlene would deride the jewelry for being made in poor taste and stow it away in a drawer for years. Cuddy had anticipated that behavior before, but now she was glad she would not have a reminder of this moment.

The vendor smiled at her as she overpaid for something she could have haggled for half the price, and she pretended not to notice the wolfish grin on his face as she tucked the necklace into her purse. In all honesty, she didn't care anyway. House had abused her good will for years. Why should she care about a stranger taking advantage of her?

Why should anyone care about using her?

Why should House?

As she turned to face him once more, she felt her thoughts trailing down a dark path. Walking towards him, she remembered all of the times she had let him get away with more than was reasonable. Why had she let him do dangerous procedures when her stomach clenched in the knowledge that it was the wrong thing to do? Why had she given him the Vicodin and her love as though he were capable of refraining from abusing either? Why had she chosen to lie under oath for him when he was a man who believed in behaving as selfishly as possible? What about him had made her selflessly give only to be rewarded with him taking all he could?

And then fear did come to her. Not because she was afraid of him. He had revealed every dark part of him the second he had driven his car through her home. There was nothing to learn about him, nothing left to see. She had seen into the very heart of him and learned that, in the end, he had none. He was selfish and cruel and destructive, and he had made all of that perfectly clear.

There was nothing to fear about him.

She was afraid anyway. In spite of all her suspicions over the years, that he would never ever _really_ give her anything in return for all her kindness, she had supported him anyway. As rational and intelligent and scrutinizing as she was, she hadn't applied any of those qualities to her relationship with him. She had purposefully kept herself blind, hoping, _waiting_ for some reason to justify all of her previous faith. And if she was terrified at all then, it was because she questioned her ability to stop that pattern.

He had been such a big part of her life for so long. He had been given the benefit of the doubt more times than she cared to count, for reasons that no longer made any sense. If she couldn't understand her motivation behind that, then how could she trust herself _not_ to make the same mistake again?

She didn't want to repeat that pattern. He deserved no consideration, no forgiveness from her. After what he'd done, she wasn't sure the law had a punishment comparable to what he _deserved_. But then, he'd never earned any of the support or love she had given him over the years, had he? It had never been about what he had deserved.

To be sure, she had never gotten what _she_ had earned.

All of those reminders she'd made – "If you do this, we'll both be fired" – that had amounted to zero action from him.

All of those instances where she had nearly _begged_ him to give her what she needed and he _hadn't_.

What her loyalty entitled her to, he never gave her. No, she thought once more, he'd never deserved anything she had given him.

Yet she had freely given him what he wanted anyway. What could she tell herself to prove that now was going to be any different?

He had gone so far beyond anything she'd thought he were capable of, yes. But she had the vague notion in her head that this had all happened before. At some point in the past, he had crossed a line – _many_ lines – and she'd forgiven; she'd become used to their new normal. She'd told herself that this was it, that he would back down, that giving him what he wanted would make him more appreciative. And all she'd really done was make him think that if he railed against her hard enough, he could make her do anything.

She wondered in terror if he was right.

And because of that, when she finally reached him, she didn't say anything to him.

"Mommy! It's House!" Rachel exclaimed excitedly.

But Cuddy didn't say anything to her either.

She simply picked her daughter up and walked away.

* * *

It had felt like a dream. After being so angry and hurt for so long, after spending all that time and energy trying to keep that pain to himself, to not lash out at her and hurt her, he thought it hadn't really happened. Memories of it came to him in fiery snippets that almost seemed unreal given how much effort he'd put into denying his rage.

But it _was_ real.

He had done it.

And as much as he'd like to claim he wasn't in control of his actions or didn't know what he was doing, he had been; he had known. In that moment, when he'd seen Cuddy _touching_ another man, he had come face to face with a truth he hadn't been ready to accept:

Although House wanted to move on, he couldn't. Although he had told her to, he didn't want her to. He hadn't been ready. After _months_ of trying to act like she didn't mean anything, like he would be better off without her, he'd been confronted with the knowledge that none of that was true.

He'd realized _she_ had had no trouble convincing herself of any of those things. _She_ had had no problem telling herself that he hadn't meant anything, that she would be better off without him, because it was the _truth._

She'd always been the better person in the relationship. She'd come into the couple knowing that he was someone she had to try with, but if it went wrong, it went wrong. She'd known that there was always someone better on paper out there for her where as he had known that no one else would _ever_ want him. He'd come into the relationship knowing that, if he screwed up with Cuddy, he would never find happiness with anyone else. And what that had meant was… she hadn't had to try as hard.

She _hadn't_ tried as hard to make things work. She'd been less forgiving, less interested in doing whatever it took to get through their problems. She'd said that he was the most incredible man she'd ever known, but half the time, it had felt like she'd also believed he was the biggest disappointment. A silly dalliance in her eyes, their relationship had been one she'd always been prepared to end.

And he understood why she would feel that way about him. It wasn't like he couldn't comprehend why she would always think in the back of her head that she could do better. He could. When he looked at her, he saw someone who should have had someone far better than _him_. When he looked at himself, he knew he wasn't good enough to be with _that_.

But he had tried _so hard_ to overcome that inevitable failure.

It had been the one thing he'd wanted to do, the only thing he'd truly strived for for months.

Yet he had failed to avoid the inevitable.

Part of him wanted to blame her for that, but it wasn't her fault. She'd just done the one thing they both knew she was destined to do. She'd done the smart thing really.

But there weren't words to describe the pain he felt upon seeing her move on while he remained completely _entrenched_ in longing for her.

He had once felt the agony of his own body dying from the inside out. He had known what it was like to feel entire pieces of your body _decay_ , to be permanently missing a part of itself because of that. And he thought that not even that could compare to the pain he felt upon witnessing Cuddy on what he could only assume had been a date.

It sounded all very dramatic, and he knew that. He knew that saying those words out loud would never earn him much sympathy, because people would assume he was exaggerating. But he was not lying. He would have given entire limbs to be with her, to get another chance to be with her. He'd said he'd wanted them to go back to the way things were before, and maybe that hadn't been a lie either. If he couldn't have her back, he'd wanted to pretend like the whole thing had never happened. But seeing her with that stranger, House had known that going back was no longer an option.

Having her back was not an option either.

And so... the only choice he felt he had in those agonizing moments was to destroy it all.

If she was going to move on, then he was going to force himself to do the same. He was going to make her feel the weight of that decision, so that he was no longer the only one bearing the brunt of their break up.

And afterwards, when he walked away, he didn't think it was wrong, because he couldn't even believe that he'd done it. It had felt like a dream, he thought once more. Walking away from her shattered home, he'd felt as though he were floating, wandering through a fantasy world that didn't actually exist. The pain in his leg should have halted him after a block of walking, but he'd effortlessly managed to go three or four blocks before he'd found a cab.

He'd been five minutes from his apartment when the scope of what he'd done had begun to hit him. As though it had been happening in front of him all over again, he'd heard the sound of the car hitting the window. He'd suddenly recalled the noise of shattering glass raining down on his roof, the soft pat of the hairbrush being placed into Cuddy's hands. He'd been confronted with the truth that this was no fantasy.

He had really done that.

He had driven his car through Cuddy's home.

And then... he had not fled, but he'd _left_. He'd known that she would be angry – _furious –_ and he hadn't wanted to be around for her reaction. Perhaps... okay, it had been a cowardly move, definitely. But some part of him had thought, foolishly admittedly, that if he weren't there, she would more apt to... forgive him?

He didn't know what he expected, because as he stood there in the open market, as he watched her grab Rachel and leave, he didn't even know what he wanted. Truth be told, he hadn't anticipated seeing them here.

But they _were_ here.

He'd been shocked to see Rachel, sickened by the surprise in seeing Cuddy looking at him. Cuddy hadn't said a single word to him before she'd snatched Rachel up. And even minutes after the fact, he wasn't sure how to react.

Was he upset she had walked away without a word?

Had he really wanted to talk to her?

He had intentionally put the metaphorical final nail in the coffin. He'd been caught up in his anger and feelings of rejection when he'd driven through her house, but he hadn't been stupid. He'd known on some level what he was doing, the damage it would cause. He'd fled for the space it would provide, but he wasn't sure what he wanted the space to do: did he think that she would forgive him if he stayed away? Or had he hoped that he would forget about his love for her entirely if he'd left for a while?

He didn't know.

And not knowing what he wanted from himself, much less from her, he let them walk away without a fight. He didn't chase after them. He didn't call out.

Turning in the opposite direction, House simply headed back towards his hotel.

* * *

The vacation was over for her now.

Cuddy hated thinking that, despised knowing that it was true. Although she supposed having her faith thrown back in her face had obliterated any sense of pride she might have had, she still felt as though House still had the power to humiliate her. He had the ability to ruin things she _deserved_.

For her own sake, she would have liked to say that seeing him had meant nothing. She would have preferred to say that knowing he was here didn't bother her, that her vacation was still in tact after being in the same area with him. More than anything, she would have liked any of that to be true.

But it wasn't.

At all.

With heavy melancholy, she had admitted that there was no escaping him. Upon seeing him, she had known that he would haunt her no matter where she went, no matter what she did.

Foolishly though she still craved an escape. She needed one. His presence was _suffocating_ , and knowing that he was mere yards from her, that he was lurking about on the island _somewhere_ made her feel so vulnerable and unprotected that she could barely breathe.

Rachel, for her part, seemed equally tormented by his nearness. But where as Cuddy wished to be free of him entirely, Rachel was distraught with longing for the man she considered her friend. To have seen him but not be able to talk to him, hug him… it was something her tiny mind couldn't understand, especially when her mother had been the one to encourage such a friendship in the beginning.

How short sighted that had been, Cuddy thought with self-disgust. Part of her had entered the relationship with House knowing that it could never work out, that she was doing this, because she would be tortured with what ifs if she married Lucas without seeing where this could go. But she had never believed fully that she would be with House five, ten years from now. That possibility had seemed so remote that she hadn't ever entertained the idea, though she didn't doubt he had.

Yet she'd allowed Rachel to get close to him anyway. Knowing House would never be dependable enough, she'd let them become friends. At the time, she'd thought that she'd had to let it happen. If she didn't, House would have known just how scared and reluctant she was. He would have seen how much it terrified her to put trust in them as a family, and he would have taken that fear as a reflection of her feelings for him.

Maybe it had been.

She wished now that it _obviously_ had been, the desire to hurt him strong. But she guessed it didn't really matter. He'd been allowed to get close, and now Rachel was going to pay the price for it.

She hadn't seen House drive his car through her home. She didn't know anything about that, and though Cuddy had failed to protect her before, she was determined for her daughter to never know that truth. It had been bad enough that she'd caught glimpses of House's insane attempts at self-surgery. It was bad enough that Rachel had any idea that this man in her life wasn't reliable, dependable, safe to be around. Cuddy didn't wish to let that mental picture become any more detailed or solidified with knowledge.

That had nothing to do with House. She had no desire to protect him any longer. In the past, she would have suggested discretely to others that, actually, the man wasn't as bad as he seemed. Now, she not only knew just how wrong she was about that, she also didn't care if others did either.

With the exception of her daughter.

House didn't deserve any consideration. But Rachel was so innocent and sweet and _perfect_ , and Cuddy wasn't going to ruin that to spite _him_. He'd more than earned her ire; he hadn't hurt her so badly that she would then in turn harm her _child_ over him.

However, in protecting Rachel, Cuddy could see that her daughter was suffering in other ways. As they walked back to the villa they'd been staying in, Rachel kept squirming, kept saying that the man she'd been talking to was _House_ – as though that were supposed to make everything better.

"I know it was him," Cuddy conceded in as understanding a voice as she could muster. "But we can't see him right now."

"Why?" Rachel whined, her bright eyes imploring her mother for an answer.

"Because. He is… not well. And we can't see him until he is. He's too busy being reckless."

Cuddy's own gaze shifted to the sand and ocean then. Her explanation was as good as it was ever going to get. There was no better way to put it, because his behavior was so disgusting and wrong and inexplicable that there were no words available to her that would make any of this make sense.

He was sick. Yes.

He was so completely disturbed and ill that he had no idea how unhealthy he was. Cuddy held her daughter closer as the chilling question suddenly passed through her mind: what _had_ he been doing here this whole time anyway? Had he just… tried to kill most of her family and then… what, decided now would be a good time to take those vacation days?

Instantly a vision of him flitted into her consciousness. Replacing the sight of him crashing into her home, she pictured him on the beach as she had been with Rachel. She imagined him with the only company he seemed to keep these days, prostitutes, which Cuddy doubted were in short supply on any vacation he took as of late. While she had been swimming with Rachel in the pool in their little holiday home, had he been elsewhere nearby, lying in a hammock? Had he sipped fruity drinks with little umbrellas, spent his evenings _coming_ inside some young girl with no other options? Had he thought about his behavior at all, reflected on it with any sort of regret or shame? Cuddy didn't wonder the question, because she looked for a reason to forgive. She just wanted to know if that were how he felt or if, when he looked back upon what he'd done, he was _happy_. Was he proud of that? She feared he was.

And somehow "sick" didn't begin to describe what was wrong with him. There were no words for the amount of illness that had twisted his soul into something so evil. But "sick" was the word Rachel would best understand… or not.

"I wanna see him!" Rachel said on the verge of tears.

"We can't. Not today."

"When?"

Cuddy looked down at her daughter. "I don't know. Now's not a good time."

Somehow Rachel understood what that meant. Maybe it wasn't that difficult to deduce that Cuddy's uncertainty meant they wouldn't be seeing House for a very long time. Cuddy supposed that, when you went from being with someone nearly every day to never being in their company, it wasn't hard to assume that the future held more of the same sort of absence.

Then again, perhaps Rachel just didn't like hearing that she wasn't going to be playing with House today. That was an unfortunate possibility, but Cuddy didn't discount it. Because if one thing had become obvious in the aftermath of their break up, it was that House was in all probability Rachel's best friend. He liked many of the same things she did: cartoons and pancakes and toys. He let her stay up later than she should, let her get away with more than anyone else would have let her. So it wasn't insane to think that Rachel was simply upset she wouldn't be able to spend time with her friend at that exact moment.

There was no denying though, Cuddy's answer only seemed to make Rachel sadder. Maybe she didn't understand that House was going to be gone from their lives for good, but she clearly knew that he wasn't going to be with her _today_. And that just made her cry.

_Sobbing_ , really, with kicking and screaming House's name, and that was how Cuddy took her daughter back to their part of the resort.

Afterwards, nothing Cuddy did seemed to make it stop. Rachel didn't want a snack; she didn't want to swim in the pool or the ocean; she didn't want to play in the beach or read a book or watch a movie. She wanted to cry and shout for someone Cuddy could never let answer.

And that was how Cuddy knew it was time to go home.

* * *

He took his time walking back to his hotel. The manager had, for extra cash, promised that there would be a hooker waiting for him when he returned. House had paid willingly, of course, wanting the distraction that simply drinking and lounging on the beach could no longer provide. But having seen Cuddy, he was sure no woman was hot or perverted enough to make him forget that.

Sand sunk between his toes as he walked along the beach. The ocean seemed to thunder in his ears, the waves crashing against the coast with a force he swore he could feel in his bones. When he'd first arrived and looked upon the sea, he'd remembered what he'd done and smiled. But there had been no mirth in his grin.

All he could think when he gazed upon paradise was how beautiful it was in contrast to him. Volcanoes had once erupted to form this gorgeous, lush scenery; the government had for years closed the islands to tourists, feeling as though preserving the blues and greens of this archipelago was more important than making any money. And by comparison he was here on this verdant isle because he nearly ran over his best friend and destroyed his ex-girlfriend's home. The distinction could not have been more obvious to him then.

But even now the dichotomy was painfully clear for him, the irony of it all impossible to ignore. He was here in this beautiful place, oddly enough with Cuddy. But he wasn't _with_ her. She was doing God only knew what with her daughter, telling Rachel who knew what about what he'd done. And he was walking back to his hotel, not to the woman he hated loving, but to a woman who meant absolutely nothing to him.

He'd wanted a few days away to... either kill all feelings he had for Cuddy or to ensure that he would come back to a woman who was magically ready to forgive him. He didn't know which outcome he'd really wanted. But in this moment, as he looked out at the vast ocean, he felt himself acknowledging heavily that neither ending was what he was going to get.

This trip hadn't destroyed his feelings for Cuddy. Severing those ties was, for him, an impossible feat; no matter how much he was frustrated with her, no matter how much he told himself he didn't want to be with her, in the end, he still wanted her. Nothing had changed that; he wanted her; he needed her, because being without her was sheer torture.

No, he hadn't found a way to move on.

But he also hadn't made Cuddy any more forgiving. She hated him, absolutely _despised_ him. Of that much he was sure. He hadn't killed his own feelings, but whatever lingering love for him she'd had he'd absolutely extinguished.

Suddenly, the prostitute waiting for him didn't seem like much of a distraction. And when he finally did return to his room, to this strange woman with dark hair and a smear of bright red lipstick on her tiny mouth, he knew it wasn't going to work out for him. He'd paid good money to have someone offer him a fun time with no strings attached, but he knew that she wouldn't be enough to take his mind off of what had happened.

Nothing would be.

And for that very reason, he was grateful to be leaving in the morning. He'd only planned for a couple days here anyway. But knowing that this island would offer him no escape from the problems haunting him, he was glad to be going home. At least at home, there wouldn't be the sweet veneer of a vacation for him to deal with; things would be miserable, as would he, and that suited him just fine.

Things were awful, so why shouldn't every inch of his life reflect that truth? It was far better than to have the lie, that he was in paradise, shoved down his throat.

"Something… is wrong?" the prostitute asked suddenly, the broken question interrupting his dark thoughts.

He refocused his gaze on her, realizing that he'd been staring at her unintentionally for the past several minutes. Appraising her once more, he thought again that she wasn't going to provide much of a distraction. That wasn't her fault, obviously. She was gorgeous. She had big brown eyes, soft cheeks he wouldn't mind stroking. Delicate curves were stretched taught over olive, sun-kissed skin, and she had tiny hips he wanted grip tightly as he fucked her as roughly as he could.

Admittedly, she looked young. There was a fullness to her small shape that screamed youth, and he doubted that she was an adult. Best guess, she was sixteen, seventeen maybe, and the fact that he could note that but not care scared him. Legally, she was probably at the age of consent. If she were too young, he doubted it was by any more than a year, and being a prostitute, she was of no concern to anyone except to the man who had obviously pimped her out to him. And again, thinking that should have bothered House. Especially when using her would essentially do nothing to make himself feel better, he thought he should have sent her away. He should have been bothered enough to get rid of her.

But at that moment, he thought it didn't matter. Cuddy already hated him. His flight was in the morning, but by the time he returned home, everyone would already believe he was beyond redemption anyway. He was a drug addict married to a prostitute. He was the jealous ex-boyfriend who'd destroyed a respected woman's home. There was nothing he could say or do to regain anyone's faith after that. Certainly, it wouldn't matter to the people who _he_ cared about. Cuddy hated him; Wilson would be mad. Fucking some girl no one would ever know or care about anyway was hardly the worst thing he'd done or could do.

He was screwed no matter what, thanks to his own behavior. Why not welcome the inevitable and deserved damnation?

Try as he might, he couldn't come up with a reason.

"Nothing's wrong," he said, knowing that "lie" didn't even begin to describe what he'd just said. "Take off your clothes."

She wore a t-shirt and shorts, neither of which took more than a minute for her to remove. That had been all she'd worn. Naked in front of him, she looked amazing.

Her breasts were pert, small but with large, dark areolas that he felt the urge to lick. His gaze moving downward, he was slightly relieved to spot the thatch of dark hair between her legs. As she slinked over to him, he thought that at least she'd been through puberty. Not that that really made any of it better.

Standing in front of him, she reached up with a soft hand and stroked his cheek. He was ready to stop her, to pull away from her, but she was too quick for him. Before he could do that, without any hesitation, she kissed him. She was on her tiptoes, mouth on his, which was unlike any experience with a prostitute he'd had before. Normally they either didn't kiss or demanded to be paid more for it.

And to be honest, he _didn't_ like it. He wasn't the kind to believe that a kiss was intimate in a way sex was not. Sex could be just as meaningful and romantic as any make out session. In this case, he wasn't looking for meaning or romance in either act anyway, not with her at least, and no matter what she did, kiss him or not, he didn't feel as though she were crossing the line into intimacy. But he didn't want her to kiss him. Or rather, he didn't mind it, but it wasn't doing anything for him either.

In fact, nothing she did seemed to turn him on, shut his mind down. She tentatively got down on her knees and unzipped his pants. That alone should have been enough to make him a little hard. But it didn't. Her cool hands pulled him out of his shorts, and she started to stroke him.

She giggled in that way women did in porn as though she thought that would give him some pleasure. When it didn't, he thought she kept the laughter going out of embarrassment.

House knew he should have been ashamed of his soft dick in her hands. He knew he should have been apologizing or searching for the Viagra he kept in his suitcase or _something_. But the truth was he didn't care.

This young girl before him was attractive and surely capable of giving a good fuck, but she wasn't Cuddy. Therefore, she was never going to give him what he needed, and his body must have known what his mind was telling him: there was no point in even trying to act like this was going to work. Having sex with this woman would offer him no reprieve from his feelings, from what he had done, so why bother?

Frankly even if he wanted to _bother_ , at this point, it was clear that he wasn't going to be able to. No matter what she did, it wasn't working. She wasn't stroking him right, or maybe she was, but it just didn't feel _good_. And when he started to chafe (she was jerking him off that hard), he couldn't help but gently push her away from him.

She rocked back onto her ass and looked up at him with wide eyes. A hint of fear shined through the dark irises of her eyes; she was unsure what he meant to do.

Quickly he tucked himself back into his jeans. "This isn't going to work," he told her flatly. "You need to leave."

"I..." She didn't understand. But when he handed her her clothes, it was clear that she had understood the request. She just didn't get why he didn't want her.

It wasn't his job to make the prostitute feel better, and he didn't care if she was hurt. She'd gotten paid already, which was all that mattered.

"Just go," he said in a firm voice. " _Go_ ," he repeated more loudly when she hesitated.

Eagerly she got dressed and grabbed the money off the nightstand. Without a single word, she scurried out the door, and he was alone once more.

Silently he couldn't help but tell himself he couldn't get off this damn island fast enough.

* * *

"Rachel, you have to stop screaming," Cuddy snapped as they wandered through the Fijian airport to their terminal.

She had tried her best. She really had. She'd tried to be patient with her daughter who had only gotten increasingly upset as time passed. She had _tried_ to pretend like House wasn't on the island with her.

And as usual, Cuddy had failed. Rachel hadn't been able to let it go, and in truth, neither had Cuddy. That chance encounter had been all they could think about, and she had decided, upon realizing that things weren't going to get better, that it was time to go home.

She'd booked the earliest available flights the second Rachel had fallen asleep fitfully. There were only a handful of planes that bridged the distance between Fiji and Australia, and all of the direct flights had already sold out when Cuddy had called. Which meant that they would have to stop and change planes on a different island in Fiji before heading towards Sydney.

At least, from Australia to the U.S., it would be a direct flight, though the plane would land in L.A.X. to refuel, she had told herself in the middle of the night when she'd booked the flight.

Unfortunately that thinking didn't make her feel any better, as she carried a kicking and screaming Rachel to their second flight of the day. And she snapped at her daughter out of frustration.

"Stop kicking me, Rachel."

"Put me down!" Rachel shouted angrily.

Cuddy just held onto her tighter. "Listen to Mommy. I can't put you down right now. We're going to miss our flight if I do. We can play on the plane."

"But House…."

She stopped moving so she could free her hand to rub her daughter's back. "I know you want to see him. I know, honey. But we have to go home. You can see him some other time. Not right now though."

She had said those words or some variation of them many times in the last twelve or so hours. They had become her mantra, a motto she had to turn to every moment Rachel seemed to think asking for House would work. But just as Rachel's efforts had yet to pay off, so too had Cuddy's. Because no matter how many times she said it, Rachel never seemed to believe that things would be all right.

"No," Rachel said sadly, shaking her head.

"Yes," Cuddy lied. "I promise. But right now we have to get on our plane, all right? We have to go home. Marina misses you so much. And Nana. And Julia." She grabbed the handle of her carry on once more and started walking towards the terminal. It was wrong to trot out the names of other people Rachel loved in an attempt to distract her. But Cuddy had run out of empty promises, and she had no other tactics left.

Luckily it seemed to work… a little bit anyway. She would have had to have been a complete moron to think that this problem was solved and would go away. Rachel cared about House, and that was unfortunately _not_ going to change any time soon. But Cuddy had bought herself a _quiet_ plane ride from Fiji to Australia, and that was good enough for her. Really, after letting her daughter get close to _House_ , she didn't think she had the right to ask for more.

She had created this situation.

But all of that personal responsibility went right out the window ten minutes after they'd boarded their third flight of the day. Because it was then, after Cuddy had gotten Rachel in her seat, that she _again_ was taken by surprise.

"Hi."

Cuddy stood up abruptly as though she had been drenched in freezing cold water. Turning around, she came face to face once more with House.

* * *

Although she would surely accuse him of otherwise, he had not seen her getting on the plane. Had he seen her, he would have canceled his flight and paid for a brand new ticket. Even if he'd had to spend another day in Australia, even if he'd had to sleep in the airport overnight, he would have preferred that than be on the same plane as her.

But he had been drinking at the bar and hadn't heard the overhead announcement until they were about to close the gates, and he'd gotten on the flight without any clue as to what waited for him.

The second he saw her, he wanted to turn around and leave. When he noticed that she was in the same row that he would be, he wanted to _run_.

He didn't though. It was the one thing he wanted to do, but he knew he couldn't. There were a couple other stragglers behind him. If he wanted to leave, he would have to barrel through them, and he would have to hope that neither Rachel nor Cuddy herself noticed the commotion he would surely cause.

That would never happen.

He knew it wouldn't.

And given the speed with which Rachel had run towards him yesterday, he also knew that, once he was spotted, he couldn't leave. Cuddy would want him to, and he would definitely want to. But he doubted Rachel would allow that to happen, for she would surely throw a fit large enough to possibly get all of them thrown off the plane.

He hoped though that if he let his presence be known, if he paid lip service to Rachel, he could get away unscathed.

Glancing down at his ticket, he verified that this disaster was unavoidable. He was seated next to where Cuddy was placing her things.

Swallowing he forced the single word out. "Hi."

She straightened up almost immediately. She hadn't looked relaxed before, not in the slightest. But when she turned to look at him, she seemed even more tense.

Rachel on the other hand couldn't contain her excitement the second she saw him. "House!"

When she tried to unbuckle herself from her seat, Cuddy reached down to stop her. "No, no, no. Remember what Mommy told you. You have to stay in your seat." When Rachel kept trying, Cuddy's voice became firmer. " _No_. You need to _stay_ in your seat right now."

House was not surprised that Rachel listened. She had never been spoken to that way, at least not in his presence. As stubborn and angry as Cuddy could be, she was unusually patient and kind towards her own child. Not that she shouldn't have been, he mentally added quickly, but she had almost always handled Rachel with a certain amount of delicacy. And this was in all probability the most angry Rachel had ever seen her mother be towards her. Knowing that, he didn't think it was that odd that Rachel stopped what she was doing and listened.

But that thought barely had any time to cross his mind before Cuddy turned to him once more. His guard instantly up once more, he waited for the ire she was _just_ keeping contained to be let loose.

Her voice was calm however. Moving further into their section of seats, she let him step forward so other passengers could move behind him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm supposed to be here." He forced himself to sound equally nonchalant about the whole thing. Holding up his ticket for her to see, he explained, "This is where I'm sitting."

She grabbed the piece of paper from his hand, her eyes instantly devouring every word they could read as quickly as possible. She wanted proof that he was lying – as though he had any interest in spending the next twenty-four hours sitting next to her. When she couldn't find any evidence of that, she shoved the paper back into his hand.

"You have two choices," she said in a low voice, probably so that Rachel couldn't hear. "You can get off the plane or –"

But how she would finish that sentence, they would never know. At that moment a flight attendant interrupted, "Excuse me. We're about to take off, and I'm going to need you both to take your seats. Would you like me to put your backpack in an overhead bin, sir?"

House wasn't allowed to answer, because Cuddy interjected. "No, he can't sit here."

"I'm sorry," the woman said in falsely sympathetic voice. "But the flight is full, and for security purposes, we can't have people switching seats on us."

Cuddy looked like she was about to lose what little control she had over herself. And in the back of his mind, he had half a mind to let her. If he were really interested in destroying every good feeling he had for her, he couldn't protect her. Then again, if he wanted her forgiveness, he kind of had to. And the real kicker of course was that either way, she would be mad at him. If he did something, she would be pissed that he helped. If he said nothing, she would be furious with him and accuse him of being selfish.

Similarly, no matter what he did, he was giving the stewardess an invitation to remove _him_ from the flight. If he said what he had done and agreed with Cuddy, he would be kicked off. If he didn't and Cuddy ended up losing her mind with anger, they would _both_ be tossed off the plane.

And he supposed that was why he ended up speaking up. Because if they were both taken off the flight, they would be spending the next several hours _together_ in an airport. As much as he didn't want to be stuck in the airport alone for who knew how long, it was still far better than being in the same airport with each other for an unknown period of time.

So he carefully inserted himself into the conversation. "She means she doesn't want me on the flight at all."

The flight attendant was unmoved. "I'm sorry, sir, but we've closed the gate. You can't get off now."

"He has to," Cuddy insisted. "I'm uncomfortable spending the next twenty-four _hours_ with him." She stepped forward to put some distance between them and Rachel. "He vandalized my home and –"

"You two know each other?"

"Yes. And I do not want him on the same flight as me."

House almost expected the stranger to do something. It would have been appropriate, of course. But instead she remained calm, her demeanor flat. "Ma'am, unless you have some reason to suspect that he plans on harming yourself or your fellow passengers, there's nothing really I can do right now." She turned to him. "Do you plan on harming her or the other passengers?"

"No." He didn't exactly want to stay on the flight, but being arrested for making terroristic threats was hardly a better alternative. "Of course not."

"Good," the flight attendant said, clapping her hands together. "Then I'm going to need you both to take your seats."

Cuddy didn't move. "But –"

"Please, ma'am. You need to take your seat… unless _you_ would like to be removed from the flight."

As though she'd been slapped in the face, Cuddy looked stunned. Her mouth opened and closed in shock, like she wanted to verbalize her reaction but didn't know how to do so. When she did eventually speak, she merely offered a feeble, "O-oh. Okay."

Awkwardly she sat down in her seat and buckled up. Numb with indecision House did not want to join her. Not even considering _her_ feelings, he couldn't help but think that this was _not_ what he wanted. Spending the next day sitting next to someone who _hated_ him hardly sounded good to him. To be by her side, to know the entire time that she wanted nothing to do with him, to be there, so close to her, and unable to touch her…

It would be torture.

"Sir," the flight attendant prompted, pulling him from his dreary thoughts. "You need to take a seat."

He was reluctant to do as she said. But if the only other option were to cause a scene and get arrested, he thought that he pretty much had to listen to her.

Quickly jamming his stuff under his chair, he plopped down unceremoniously. And Rachel, upon seeing him only one seat away from her, clapped her hands happily. As she began to chatter with him, he could only think:

At least one person was happy.

* * *

She had not been afraid before. If House had inspired fear in her at all, it was because she was worried of the how she might respond to his presence. Now, having been with him for exactly two hours and five minutes, she could feel terror beginning to bleed through the anger and resentment.

It wasn't for herself though. She had every right to be afraid of him of course. The _idiotic_ flight attendant had made it seem as though she were foolish for even asking him to be removed from the plane, but the fact was: Cuddy had a right to be terrified.

But if she were starting to feel any fear at all, it was for _Rachel_.

In all fairness, Cuddy had known her daughter was close to House. She'd seen the way seeing him had made her baby react, and she would have had to have been completely moronic to think that that would disappear just because Cuddy wanted it to. She had known Rachel would be happy to see him, and when the plane had taken off, Cuddy had predicted a flight filled with moments where Rachel tried to talk to him.

What she had _not_ anticipated was House being a willing participant. But he was. For the first hour of the flight, he had focused all of his attention on Rachel. Cuddy had sat between them, listening to them talk about that _stupid_ pirate cartoon. The rock of the plane always made her slightly nauseous, but being witness to this had made the bile burn in the back of her throat. Because then she'd seen that it hadn't _just_ been Rachel who cared for House.

He cared for _her_.

And less than a week ago, he'd been so enraged that he'd nearly killed her mother.

That had been all Cuddy could think of as they'd sat there _chatting_. House had never had an easy time getting close to anyone. For as long as she'd known him, he'd shunned relationships and connections; he'd reviled them, as though friendships made a person weak. But he'd become close with Rachel. He'd opened his heart up to _her_ , but he hadn't done the same thing for Cuddy herself. And after all that effort they'd put into making their relationship work, he'd hated her enough to try to _murder_ her. Yet in spite of that, he'd still thought nothing of being close to her daughter. He had all the affection in the world for Rachel and saved all of his ire for the one person in charge of _raising_ that little girl.

Suddenly, as though she'd never had any idea before, Cuddy had seen just how _sick_ House was. She'd thought she'd known after he'd driven his car through her home. But clearly, he'd still had some surprises left in him.

Thinking that, she'd wanted to scream. She'd wanted to shout and _kill_ him where he sat. She'd known though that that couldn't happen. Even if she'd had the legal right to do it, there'd been Rachel to think about. _Rachel_ would see it, and Cuddy knew that her daughter didn't need to be a witness to any violence.

Her only other option had been to sit there and take it, to stay quiet and listen to this _evil_ man talk to her daughter like they were the best of friends.

Nothing in her life had ever been as difficult. But she had forced herself to do it, for the sake of her daughter. And soon enough the excitement of seeing House got to Rachel, and she fell asleep.

Now, two hours and five minutes into the flight, there was _finally_ silence. But what she had seen left Cuddy terrified.

She didn't dare close her eyes. Sleep, which she was in desperate need of, would have helped pass the time, but she didn't trust _him_. Being around him set her on edge, and the very idea of being unconscious and not keeping an eye on him made her uncomfortable.

Even if that weren't the case, House seemed to think she could put her time to better use. His fingers lightly and briefly touching the back of her hand, her head snapped towards his direction.

"Don't do that," she said in a firm, unwavering voice.

Dramatically he pulled the hand away as if to show that he hadn't meant any harm. He probably hadn't, she thought, not _then_ anyway.

"I just thought that, since she's asleep," he told her calmly. "Maybe we should talk."

She chuckled without any joy. "I don't think so."

At that moment, she lamented not having seats on either side of the plane. Having had to buy tickets at the last minute, she'd been stuck in the middle row of seats in business class, and as such, the nearest window was still feet away from her. So when she looked away from him, she didn't really have something to focus her gaze on. Eventually she settled for looking at two of the flight attendants pushing a drink cart around.

House didn't give up that easily though. "You just want to sit here and pretend like we don't know each other?"

"That's exactly what I want."

She knew that wouldn't be enough to make him stop. Hadn't he demonstrated as much? When he wanted something, he didn't give up until he had bullied everyone else around him into conceding. She knew it wouldn't be any different now, so she wasn't surprised when he spoke up after a few minutes.

"As uncomfortable as this is for you, we really do need to discuss a few things."

She scoffed, bit back the derisive laugh she felt trying to escape. "There's nothing to talk about, House."

"One conversation. That's all I want," he told her in a gentle tone. "And then I won't say anything to you for the rest of the flight."

Her hair whipped back and forth as she shook her head in a practically violent manner. "Or you can just not talk to me, thank you."

"I won't talk to Rachel," he offered. "I'll pretend like I don't hear her."

Cuddy's eyes narrowed on him. She was seething with anger. That he would proposition her with _that_ , when, if he'd had _any_ decency, he would have just _done that_ made her want to kill him.

Her teeth gritted, she said in sharp tones, "You shouldn't be talking to her anyway. You should have gotten off the plane or sat elsewhere. And when that wasn't possible, you should have _known_ that it is _not_ okay for you to talk to her."

Was that shame she saw in his eyes? There was a brief flash of _something_ in his gaze, something that left him without a response. Maybe she was wrong to think he was ashamed of anything, especially when it came to his own behavior. He obviously had no idea how awful his actions were if he thought that she would _ever_ want to talk about it with him. Being on a plane made the idea of a conversation that much worse, but even so, what he had done was beyond discussion. And if he wanted to talk about it at all, that was proof enough that he couldn't possibly be capable of feeling ashamed of himself. So she thought she couldn't be reading him right, as he didn't know what shame was.

But then, she wondered what she did see in his gaze. Dismay maybe? Frustration with her stubbornness? She didn't know, and he thankfully didn't say anything to give her any indication as to the emotions flitting through his mind then.

He just leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

By the amount of shifting he did next to her, she could tell it took him a while to fall asleep. Yet he did eventually succumb to slumber in the end, and for that she was both grateful and irritated.

Based on what he'd done, he shouldn't have been able to sleep at all. God only knew _she_ had barely been able to. It had happened to her, but he'd been the one to _choose_ to drive his car through her home. The least he could do was be more tormented than she was about it. No, she didn't want him awake and bothering her. But she also didn't want to _see him_ able to move on with his life as though what he'd done had no significance.

That was what he believed though, wasn't it? This was just another screw up in his mind, a mistake he'd made, a wrong act, but nothing he couldn't overcome if he charmed her enough.

Truth be told, _that_ almost hurt more than the actual choice he'd made to ruin her home. That he could do it and not even care… yeah, that was far more hurtful than anything he'd done up to this point. And he had done _so much_ to already hurt her.

Part of her _still_ , up to this point, had wanted to believe, all evidence to the contrary, that he couldn't stoop any lower. With everything he'd done, she had _needed_ that to be the end. But… he just seemed continually intent on punishing her for breaking up with him.

After all this time, she considered that he didn't even get it. As smart as he was, clearly he didn't exactly understand feelings or… emotions, she thought. And as frightening as it was to even think it, maybe he didn't even know what he had done, what he _was_ doing.

If that were supposed to inspire pity in her though, it wasn't working. She didn't feel bad for him that he had no concept of what love and respect were. She didn't think of whatever pain he was feeling. No doubt he had twisted this whole thing around in his mind so that _he_ was the _only_ one who had suffered. He didn't think about what _she'd_ gone through. He didn't think about what it had been like for her, in that hospital and possibly dying with _no one_ by her side; he didn't think about how it would make her feel when he crashed his car through her home. He hadn't thought of anyone but himself, and frankly, Cuddy couldn't help but feel that he had the right idea.

It was time to be just as ruthlessly selfish as he had been, as he _was_.

For that reason, she didn't give into her sudden desire to kill him. She didn't rush to the bathroom to vomit, as she had been wanting to do since he had sat next to her.

Instead, she forced herself to close her eyes next to him.

If he were going to pretend as though none of this mattered, then she would follow suit. If what he'd done wasn't going to bother him, she would never let him see just how much it had upset her.

* * *

House woke to a sharp pain in his leg. His eyes stayed closed as consciousness quickly returned to him. And then remembering where he was, he didn't wish to open his eyes to be in the same awful situation he'd gone to sleep in. But the pain in his thigh, which felt almost like an outside pressure, would not let him remain ignorant of the world around him.

Blinking he looked down with bleary eyes. He was surprised to find Rachel in between his slightly spread legs with one of her knees on his seat. Her hands on his thighs, she was trying to climb up on his lap.

Without moving he asked tiredly, "What are you doing?"

She looked up at him with eyes that seemed unnaturally wide. She smiled at him. "Hi hi hi."

He glanced over at Cuddy, who was curled up in her seat. Her back was to him, but he assumed that, if Rachel were over here, Cuddy had fallen asleep. His gaze moving past her sleeping form, he could see why Rachel was so excited.

Her tray table was down, and on top of it laid an empty bottle of grape juice and a Coke can, which he feared was equally empty.

"Where'd you get that?" he asked Rachel as he pointed to the drinks.

"Um…." She stopped trying to climb on his lap, so she could twirl around in the little bit of space in front of him. "The lady gave it to me," she said in a singsong voice.

"You drink all that Coke?"

"Uh huh."

He sighed. "Great."

At that she held up her hands. "Up up up up up. Up," she said with a sharp nod of the head.

House hesitated to pick her up like she clearly wanted. Under normal circumstances he would have done it. Of course he would have done it. She wasn't his favorite person in the world, but he cared enough about her to want her to be happy. More importantly, he didn't want to listen to her whine for the next ten minutes, and _most_ importantly, he wanted to keep Cuddy quiet and asleep. And he supposed that last case was what made it _abnormal_ circumstances.

She was pissed at him, and she had every right to be, and she was right: he shouldn't have been talking to Rachel and acting as though he hadn't done anything wrong. As soon as Cuddy had said it, he'd known she was right. He was making things worse by rubbing his relationship with her daughter in her face.

Naturally, that hadn't been his point. That wasn't what he wanted. He just… didn't think it was right to let Rachel get caught in the middle. The less she knew the better, and perhaps selfishly he _really_ wanted to keep the truth from her. Though he had never anticipated having a relationship with her, the fact was he did; Rachel liked him, looked up to him. And he didn't want to lose that. It would happen eventually, he knew, but he wanted to hold onto that relationship for as long as he could. Because the way he saw it…

Rachel was the last person who saw any goodness in him.

She was the only one.

Cuddy hated him. She didn't even want to let him explain that was how much she hated him.

Wilson… well, House hadn't talked to him, but it was clear how that relationship was going to go. Unlike Cuddy, Wilson might forgive him for what he had done. But that friendship had been damaged for years, thanks to House's behavior. Each and every time, Wilson had forgiven him, but House wasn't blind. Every instance he'd screwed up, Wilson had been less and less willing to forgive; his hesitation had increased, and resentment over the event lingered long after they'd made up.

Yes, Wilson would probably forgive him for what he'd done. But House knew that it wouldn't be that simple. It wouldn't be an _easy_ forgiveness. House would have to work for it, especially if Cuddy decided to interfere with that process. She was obviously close to Wilson, and if she showed her anger to him at all, Wilson would be that much more likely to stay mad at _him._ And even if House became friends with him once more, their relationship would still never be the same after the fact.

Rachel was the last person to think the world of him.

She was the last one in his life too naïve to know better.

Selfishly he didn't want to lose that.

But in trying to maintain some sort of friendship with Rachel, he was hurting Cuddy. And he couldn't keep doing that, because at some point, Rachel would understand what he was doing to her mother. Then she would hate him too.

So when she held up her arms for him to grab, he slowly shook his head. "Nah. Sorry," he said honestly. "Mommy wants you to sit in your seat."

Rachel laughed like what he was saying was an intentional joke. "I want up."

"No," he told her more firmly. "Go sit down."

Instead Rachel clawed her way up his lap. As though he were a jungle gym, she somehow managed to push herself up on his knees and then crawl the rest of the way there.

"In your seat," he clarified, as she plopped down on his lap.

If she moved at all, it was so that she could lay her head against his chest. He leaned his head down so he could talk to her quietly. His chin resting against her crown he said, "That's not what I said."

"I missed you," she explained.

He nodded his head. "I know." An internal voice whispered that he had missed her as well. At least, he had missed being in her home with her mother. But he refused to speak of any of the longing he felt. It wouldn't do any good now.

"Why can't you come over?" Rachel asked sadly.

He sighed but didn't hesitate to answer. He hadn't had anything rehearsed, but somehow explaining what had happened sufficiently to a child and explaining things terribly in general sounded exactly alike. "I… screwed some things up. I hurt Mommy's feelings, and she doesn't want to see me right now."

Rachel nodded her head like that made sense. "Mommy says you're neck-less."

"I think you mean reckless. I have a neck."

She giggled and looked up at him. She reached up with her hand and pressed her palm against his stubble. He rubbed his chin against her, making her laugh. "It tickles."

He stopped, knowing that if she got much louder, she would wake her mother.

"Go sit down," he told Rachel when she'd eventually calmed down.

She shook her head. Smiling she announced, "I hafta go potty."

"Ask your mother to take you."

"She's sleeping."

He picked her up then and placed her on the ground in front of Cuddy. "Wake her up," he said sternly.

"You can take me." The way Rachel said it made him think that she thought this was some sort of a gift. It wasn't.

"I don't want to take you." He gestured to his thigh. "Sorry. Leg."

She wiggled about and crossed her legs. "I have to go _now_." She looked at him pleadingly, though he doubted she was seriously that desperate.

Then again, given his luck as of late, she probably really did have to pee that badly. If she was asking him to take her and she wet herself, how would Cuddy respond to _that_? He didn't think it would be anywhere in the realm of "positively." But at the same time, he wasn't sure it would be any better if he were to take the kid to the bathroom and come back to an awake Cuddy.

"Wake up Mommy."

All Rachel did though was whine like she was about to piss her pants at that second.

"Fine," he capitulated immediately. Reaching down, he unbuckled himself from his seat. He didn't want to take Rachel, but knowing her, he worried that she would urinate all over herself just to guilt him. And if he were to let her do that, then just like everyone else, she would be angry with him.

That was the last thing he wanted.

Standing up House moved out of the way for Rachel to squeeze out of their aisle. She scrambled from between the seats quickly, and the second he pointed her in the way of the bathrooms, she took off running, _squealing_ as she went.

Her sugar high was undeniable, and he quietly followed behind her. Secretly he hoped Cuddy would stay asleep.

* * *

"Mommy!" The single word seemed to last at least several minutes, and Cuddy shot up in her seat sometime during Rachel's second syllable.

"What?" Cuddy asked tiredly, blinking quickly, a hand instinctively smoothing her hair back. "What's going on?"

Even as she asked the question, she could figure out for herself what was happening. Her muscles ached and were stiff. Her mouth felt as though it were full of cotton, and her bladder felt full. However long she had been asleep, it had been a while. Admittedly that was hardly surprising. Given how much time she'd spent packing their things, making airline reservations, and consoling Rachel, Cuddy had had little sleep the night before.

Still, she instinctively looked at her watch. It was around six o'clock in the evening. She had no idea what time it was supposed to be where they were. The nondescript patch of ocean they were flying over had no discernible time zone, but it was six in Australia. Which meant that she'd slept for four hours. Glancing at Rachel whose lips were practically purple (from what Cuddy assumed was grape juice), Cuddy knew she had been the only one to stay asleep this entire time.

Her gaze instantly looked towards House who was awake. And it was clear to her then, from the way he nervously watched her for a reaction, he hadn't listened to a single word she'd said. Because in the time she had been asleep, it was obvious that _he_ had been playing with Rachel.

He too had what looked like grape juice staining the corners of his mouth. A couple books Cuddy had packed were jammed into the seat pocket in front of him, not in the bag where she had left them. The TV on the back of the seat in front of him was stuck on some sort of cartoon… which he might have watched on his own, but she doubted it. That meant _he_ had been the one watching over Rachel. In spite of everything Cuddy had said, that was what he had chosen to do.

He could have woken her up. He could have made Rachel wake her up. But instead, he had taken over parenting duties – hours, maybe even minutes after Cuddy had specifically made it clear that that wasn't what she wanted. She had said he should have been ashamed for even _trying_ to have a conversation with her daughter in front of her. Had he somehow taken that to mean that babysitting was a-okay instead?

She didn't ask that question. As much as she wanted to hurl it in his face, Rachel was awake and didn't need to see that. So Cuddy merely glared at him before turning to her daughter.

"Rachel," she said sleepily. Reaching for her, Cuddy plucked the little girl up off her seat and pulled her toward her. Rachel was warm and soft against her and eagerly hugged her mother back. "Did you have juice while Mommy was sleeping?"

Rachel nodded her head, using the back of her hand to try and wipe her own purple-stained mouth. "I'm purple!"

"I know. I can see that."

"We watched a movie," Rachel explained happily. "Cause you was sleeping. And we read books and stuff." As soon as she said the words, she looked as though she remembered she wasn't supposed to say anything. "Oops. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, it's fine," Cuddy said immediately. "I'm glad you had some time to play with House."

It was a lie.

Rachel was naïve enough to not know that though. She assumed that if her mother said it, she was being honest. But it was as far from the truth as Cuddy could get. And House obviously knew that, given that he bristled at the words.

But Rachel happily went about with her life, never noticing the way the adults around her seemed uneasy with one another. For that Cuddy was grateful. As though she were a broken record, she thought once more that the less Rachel knew, the better. No one would benefit if she were to discover the truth, that her mother and her best friend hated one another now. And no matter how much Cuddy wanted to turn to House and yell at him, she wasn't going to do that in front of her daughter.

He'd had no right to take care of Rachel while Cuddy had been sleeping. If he had no right to be _here_ when he should have been in jail, then he certainly didn't have the right to do anything that appeared to be _kind_ for her. Because if he'd wanted to be kind, he would have kept his car _out_ of her home – or at least turned himself in _the second_ after he had done it.

But she kept those thoughts to herself. It would do no good to lose her temper right now. It wouldn't make her feel any better to scream her head off in front of her daughter.

So she focused on Rachel's needs. She took her to the bathroom a few times, read to her, walked around the plane with her, fed her, and held her. And in doing all of that, it was almost easy to ignore the overwhelming hatred Cuddy felt for the man next to her. She wouldn't lie and act as though it disappeared completely. It didn't; it _couldn't_. What House had done was so awful and _vile_ that there was absolutely no chance in Hell that she could forgive much less ignore his betrayal. But being with Rachel, she was reminded that there were still some good things in the world.

Adopting Rachel had been one of the hardest, most emotionally trying things she had ever done in her life. Every day since then she had been challenged in ways she hadn't ever thought possible. With questions she didn't have answers for, tears she didn't always know how to console… Rachel had managed to confound Cuddy on a regular basis.

Yet those first few weeks not withstanding, Cuddy had never regretted her choice, never even questioned it. To be sure, in this very moment, she had never been happier to have had her little girl. Because if she had dated House, if they had broken up and he had done _that_ , without Rachel to keep her grounded, Cuddy was sure she would have lost her mind.

But with her daughter nearby, Cuddy was able to force herself to focus on things unrelated to House. She could pour all of her energy into taking care of Rachel.

Every now and then, Rachel would try to get House's attention, and Cuddy couldn't do anything about that. She couldn't stop their short conversations from happening. But every time that happened, she deftly steered Rachel back to _her_ , with a book or a couple crackers.

And eventually, several hours after they'd been served what she guessed was supposed to be dinner, Rachel fell asleep in her seat. The second she'd gone down, Cuddy realized how awful the next couple of days were going to be. The change in location, the excitement of seeing something new, had kept Rachel's jetlag at bay when they'd flown to the Yasawa Islands. But surely going from Fiji to New Jersey wasn't going to be anywhere near as exciting, and after sleeping on a plane, she wouldn't want to sleep tonight, would she?

Cuddy suspected the answer to that question was no. And because of that, she had half a mind to wake her daughter right then and there.

She didn't though.

If one thing had been made clear today, it was that House was right: they needed to talk. Or rather, he needed to hear exactly how things were going to be from now on. Admittedly there was a good chance he wouldn't listen to her. He was so _disturbed_ that she knew that there was a great possibility that he wouldn't even be able to comprehend what she was saying. But for her own sake, she needed to say out loud what was on her mind. Whether he intended to listen to her or not was beside the point. Right now he was doing whatever he wanted, because he obviously had no idea where they stood. He had no clue what she intended to have happen. And while she had no problem letting the consequences of his actions take him by surprise, she was tired of watching cluelessly flounder.

Minutes after Rachel fell asleep, Cuddy turned to him. "All right," she said, throwing her hands in the air.

The sound of her voice instantly made him look in her direction. His eyes were wide with surprise, hesitation easy to read all over his face.

"You said you wanted to talk," she said with disdain. "Let's talk."

He resisted for a moment filled with indecision and suspicion. "I thought we didn't have anything to discuss," he reminded her. "Those were your words."

She shrugged. "I must have changed my mind."

"Just like that."

"Sure. Why not?"

There was audible resentment in the dry words, and he clearly picked up on that, because he replied, "Well when you say it like _that_ , it makes me –"

"I don't care," she said quickly. "You said you wanted this conversation, and now you're going to get it." If it sounded like a threat, she guessed that was because it was.

But he wasn't frightened off. "Okay. I –"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "You're not going to talk. You're going to listen to me."

He looked taken aback, but he didn't say anything. She was grateful for that.

"This has to stop," she ordered, gesturing with her fingers from him to Rachel.

"I don't –"

"Trying to be _friends_ with her. Reading to her. Watching movies to her." The disgust she felt was practically dripping from the words. "I get why you're doing it, but she is _not_ yours."

His forehead wrinkled in confusion. "I never said she was."

"That is _my_ daughter. She is not here to make _you_ feel better about what _you_ did." He opened his mouth, probably to deny it, which was why she quickly asked, "You think I wasn't going to notice what you're doing? You think I was going to think that you were, what, a _swell_ guy for doing what you did to me if you were just nice enough to her?"

"I know I screwed up," he admitted apologetically. "I'm sorry. I –"

"I don't care. I _really_ don't." She smiled humorlessly, knowing just how truthful she was being. She didn't care that he knew he'd screwed (though she doubted _that_ ) or that he was claiming to be sorry (when she knew he wasn't). "There is no apology you can make that's going to make any of this okay. I don't want one, and if I did, you wouldn't even _mean_ it, House. We both know that you're using her to make yourself feel better about what you did. Because God forbid you actually spend a moment in your life reflecting upon your actions."

He shook his head so fast that she knew it meant he hadn't even considered what she was saying. "That's not true."

"Rachel is the last person who thinks you're a good person," Cuddy said knowingly. "And you're using her affection for you to tell yourself that what you did wasn't _really_ that bad, because she still likes you." Her lip curled in disgust.

"I'm not," he lied. She knew he was lying. "I… care about her. I don't want her to know what –"

"You care about her?" She let her doubt shine through.

He nodded his head and almost seemed honest then. "I do."

Maybe he did, she conceded. Or… at least, perhaps he thought he did. At that point, Cuddy was sure he couldn't possibly care about anyone other than himself. But he looked honest.

Not that that mattered.

"Right. She's your _friend_."

He shrugged. "Yeah. I guess she is."

"And look what you did to her _mother_ ," she hissed angrily. "You care about her so much. You're her friend, and you…." Her voice was overcome with emotion, and she had to stop talking.

Straightening her back, she inhaled and exhaled. Thus far, he had not seen her be overly emotional, and she refused to let that change now. She would keep control of herself, she told herself, forcing her mind to relax and focus once more.

When she was finally calm enough to continue, she said, "That's the part I can't wrap my head around. You ruined her _home_. When I get back, I know the building inspectors are going to tell me that the property isn't safe and that I'm going to have spend thousands of dollars just to get it back to the way it was. Which," she said more forcefully. "Doesn't take into account the things _inside_ that you ruined. Memories that she and I had."

He had the good sense to look guilty and keep his mouth shut.

"And the odd thing is: I could forgive you for that. If it had been accident, I could get past that." She frowned deeply. "But you did it on purpose. You did it _intentionally_."

"You do realize that those things mean the same thing, right?"

She glared at him. "You claim to be her friend, but you thought nothing of taking that away from her. You thought nothing of threatening the lives of her uncle and her _aunt_. You were so wrapped up in your anger that you thought nothing about trying to _kill her mother_."

"I didn't do that," he said instantly. It was clear both in his tone and his demeanor that he was offended. Apparently being the mad man who drove his way through people's homes was a title he could live with, but attempted murderer was where he drew the line. "I didn't try to kill you."

"Oh, well that just makes me feel _so_ much better." Realizing that she almost sounded hysterical, she forced herself to calm down once more. "You weren't _trying_. You just could have accidentally done it."

He looked away then. Though he seemed to feel some guilt then, she didn't back down.

"I don't know which is worse – that you would do it intentionally or that you would put my life at risk on a _whim_." She leaned closer to him, so she could speak more quietly. "Did you even consider that _Rachel_ , your _friend_ , might have been in the house, or how _she_ might have felt seeing you do _that_?"

He swallowed hard, making her believe that he hadn't thought of that at all. Rachel's safety hadn't even crossed his mind. What he said though was, "I saw you. On a date, Cuddy." He looked at her then. "I knew you wouldn't have her there."

"Oh really?" she asked incredulously, folding her arms across her chest. "And what if I hadn't been able to get my mother to watch her? What if my sister had brought her kids over, because we'd decided to let the kids play while we had a _friendly_ dinner together? You –"

"You were on a date," he repeated with increased seriousness. "After our break up, you weren't going to expose Rachel to some random _guy_."

She didn't believe him though. "You didn't know I was on a _date_."

"No?" He shifted in his seat with excitement. "You think I don't know what you look like when you're interested in a guy? You looked happy. You touched his arm."

House continued to go through the supposed visual tells she had given him, but her mind lingered on the idea that this orgy of violence had been caused by a date.

"You son of a bitch," she interrupted, practically snarling. "You decided to punish me for being on a date?" One of her hands curled into a fist against her side. "You're an _idiot_. I only asked Jerry –"

" _Jerry_ ," he muttered. He obviously didn't like the name or, she guessed, that she had remembered the name days after the fact.

But she ignored him. "I asked him to dinner, because you were the one who said you wanted to go back to the way things were."

"How kind of you, to date another man for my sake. Did you deep throat him to make me feel better too? Perhaps you'd like to ride him bareback to improve my mood. I hear letting other guys come in your ass is good for the pain in my leg."

"You wanted to move on," she said, refusing to react to his nasty remarks. "So I took your lead and did what I thought you wanted me to. For months," she explained to him. "I didn't go out with anyone. I didn't move on with my life out of courtesy for _you_."

"All I wanted to see, all I ever needed to know was that our break up meant something to you," he told her bitterly. "I don't care if you moved on one _day_ after we broke up. But you don't even seem to care that it happened."

Her cheeks turned red with anger. "Some of us don't feel the need to wield our pain around like a weapon."

"That's –"

"Exactly what you did," she supplied, finishing the thought for him. "You have been walking around the hospital for _months_ just trying to get a reaction from me. The hookers, the demands, the marriage, the Vicodin – you've been desperate to get something from me, to make me feel bad."

"I didn't want to _make_ you feel bad," he corrected with frustration. "I just wanted to know that I wasn't the only one who was hurt by this. You've been walking around like it didn't mean –"

"No," she snapped. As soon as she did that though, she glanced back at Rachel. Thankfully her daughter was still asleep. Slowly she turned back around to face House. "You didn't just want to see my pain. You've been throwing punches at me every chance you got. You wanted to _cause_ me pain. You –"

"I didn't do that," he said through gritted teeth.

"You did. You have been _abusive_ and cruel. And you think that behaving that way was going to inspire me to _show_ _you_ how I felt?" She laughed, because what he wanted from her was nothing short of ridiculous. " _You_ left me in that hospital room alone. _You_ decided to self destruct and have sex with everything in sight and jump off hotel balconies and destroy my home, and somehow _I'm_ the one who hasn't shown enough pain over our break up? _I'm_ the insensitive one."

He looked down at his lap. He only did it for a moment before he clearly forced himself to meet her gaze once more. But for a brief second, her words had clearly had their intended effect.

"You want to see my pain?" she asked, never intending to give him a chance to reply. "Fine. Here are my _feelings_ : I missed you, and even though I knew I had every right to break up with you, it hurt. But I didn't let you see that, because you've been so _selfish_ , acting as though you're the only one affected by this. You didn't have any room for any of my emotions, no matter what you say. But since you want to know how I'm feeling, I'll tell you."

She wasn't sure if he expected her to say she wanted him back then or that she still missed him. She had no idea what he wanted or thought she would tell him. Part of her, of course, hoped he knew that neither of those things were sentiments she would express _now_. Yet there was another part of her that did want him to think those things, so that she could _crush_ him.

"I don't miss you anymore. Whatever feelings I had for you, you have promptly and _thoroughly_ extinguished," she said coldly. "I thought there was some good in you. I wanted you to prove that to me, that you might be able to change, that you actually could do better. I don't want that anymore. The second you put my life in danger, the second you threatened my _family's_ lives, that ended."

"I didn't mean –"

"I don't care. If you'd had any shred of humanity in you, you wouldn't have done _that_. If there were any good at you, you would have done something else. I wanted to believe you were capable of being a good person, but I was wrong. I was _so_ wrong. And as usual, when it came to you doing the mature thing and the thing you just _wanted_ to do, well, we both know what you chose. And I hope it was worth it for you."

He hung his head a little. "You know it wasn't."

"That's too bad," she replied as unsympathetic as ever. "Because you're going to jail for it."

At that his attention snapped towards her once more. For the first time, his gaze held fear and realization. She did not pity him.

"Yeah," she said patronizingly. "They're going to _arrest_ you the second you get back to New Jersey." But even as she said that, she knew it was more wishful thinking than anything else.

To be sure, he _would_ be arrested. The officer had told her that they would be required by law to arrest him, though it was up to her to decide whether or not charges would be eventually pressed. But whether they would pick him up the second he returned to the state, she really couldn't say. She was willing to bluff though.

"And then you'll be going to jail," she informed him. For the first time in days, her smile truly did feel like a joyous one. "And I'm sure in the back of your mind, you'll want to hope that you're going to prison on a technicality or that my testimony – and I _will_ be testifying – was required of me. But it's _not_ ," she told him, stressing the last word. "When I get up on the stand and tell them I want nothing to do with you, House, I want you to know that I'll mean every single word I say. I want nothing to do with you," she repeated. "I want you to go to jail, and I am going to do everything in my power to make sure that that happens. Do you understand that?"

He blinked, and though he didn't cry, she thought she saw tears in his eyes. Again, sympathy was a feeling she could not have for him.

"I'm going to tell a judge and jury that you are an awful, irredeemable person, and I'm not just going to be saying that, because I'm a little mad at you. This isn't something you're going to fix with an apology. This isn't something I'll forgive you for if I see you being sweet to my daughter. In fact…." She decided right then and there to put a stop to how he was treating Rachel. "If I see you try to be nice to her for one more minute, I swear to God –"

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, quickly trying to hide the pain he was clearly starting to feel. "Pretend like she's not here? Not talk to her?"

"Sure," she said with a shrug. "Pretend you're asleep for all I care. Just stop trying to be friends with her. She doesn't need to be around you."

"Maybe not, but –"

" _Maybe_ not?"

"But she is," he persisted, ignoring her. "For the next several hours, she's going to be sitting next to me. It's not fair to her to –"

"I don't care what reason you use," she interrupted. "Pretend you're not feeling well. _Pay_ someone else to switch seats with you. But you leave her alone."

She expected him to, but House didn't fight her. Whether it was the tone of her voice or the knowledge that she could make his life hell, she didn't know. But he didn't disagree with her then. He just nodded his head and said, "Fine."

He got up then. She wasn't sure what he planned on doing. Whether he was going to switch places with another passenger or he just wanted some air, she didn't know. Really, she didn't care what he did, although she would have absolutely preferred to be separated from him as best as they could manage given the circumstances. But when he returned ten minutes later vaguely smelling like hand soap, she realized that he had merely used the bathroom.

As he sat down, she couldn't deny that she was disappointed. She didn't care what he did, so long as he followed her orders, but she definitely had a preference. Still she didn't complain.

Getting comfortable in his seat, he shot her a meaningful look. What emotion he was trying to express, she wasn't sure, and to be honest, she didn't have the energy or the desire to figure it out. But he seemed to be satisfied anyway – or at least resigned to the way things were.

Leaning back in his chair, he looked away and closed his eyes. As far as she could tell, he didn't fall asleep. He would have had to have been completely emotionless in order to do that after their conversation. Admittedly he was almost there, almost at that point where pain, specifically causing it in other people, had no effect on him. Looking at him briefly, she thought he didn't even know it. But she could see it in him. He was nearly there, and even if she hadn't wanted him to go to prison, he clearly needed it. He needed something to pull him back or… make him see what he had done.

Quickly she pushed that thought aside. It wasn't her job to make him better. It had never been her responsibility to do that, but definitely, it wasn't up to her _now_ to make sure that he got the help he desperately needed. That responsibility lie, as it always had, with _him_. And she refused to let herself feel bad for him then, though part of her was tempted.

He didn't deserve it.

Turning away from him, she tried once more to pretend as though he didn't exist. While Rachel slept that was easy. Cuddy simply read the novel she had brought with her and didn't look in his direction. When Rachel woke up though, it was harder. Naturally she wanted to talk to him, play with him.

But he kept his word and did neither. He obviously couldn't pretend to be asleep the entire time, so Cuddy lied to her daughter once more and explained that House had a headache. Rachel didn't like the sound of that, of course; she didn't like hearing that her friend couldn't keep her entertained. However, she believed Cuddy and didn't question her mother at all.

Truth be told, it struck Cuddy as odd, as time progressed, that this was happening. Even when House eventually sat up, he pretended to not feel well – even going so far as taking a Vicodin to reinforce that idea (although Cuddy was sure he took the Vicodin for other reasons as well). They were trying so hard to act like they didn't even know each other, that everything between them was over, but here they were, working together to convince Rachel that something else was going on.

They hadn't planned this out. They'd agreed House would stop interacting with Rachel, but they hadn't discussed just what it was that they would do, the lies they would tell. But here they were anyway, presenting a front that seemed perfectly united. Cuddy wanted nothing to do with him, but they were working together with ease at that moment.

She tried not to think about that though. If she thought about it too much, she would feel as though she were drowning in his presence, as though no amount of running away from him would put distance between them. So every time her mind started to head in that direction, she doubled her efforts on focusing on Rachel.

And it was easy. To get through the remainder of the flight, even with House by their side, was easy. It wasn't hard to distract Rachel or remind her that he wasn't feeling well. There was nothing difficult about it. The hours passed, not quickly, but without incident.

That abruptly changed, however, minutes after they landed. Cuddy was happily thinking about getting off the plane and, well, not going home obviously. Thanks to the man next to her, she had no home to go to. But she could check into a hotel and take a long hot bath with Rachel, and House would be nowhere near her, and _that_ was what she was thinking when they pulled up to the gate.

And then the police came.

They boarded the plane, the flight attendants announcing that everyone needed to remain in their seats. Some passengers groaned, but if Cuddy felt dread at all, it had nothing to do with being forced to sit a little longer. It was because she knew what was going to happen as they headed in her direction.

She had no idea if they were here because of what she'd told the flight attendant when they'd boarded or if the police had independently been searching for him. All she knew was that they were here for House.

They were going to arrest him in front of Rachel. All of the work they'd put into keeping her out of it was moot now. Because it didn't matter what they had said for the last twenty-four hours.

The sight of House being led away in handcuffs said it all to Rachel. She was still practically a baby, but she knew what that meant.

And when Rachel started to sob for him, Cuddy scooped up her daughter and held her close. "It's okay. It's going to be all right."

For the first time in days, when she said those words, she actually meant them.

House would be going to jail.

Yes, things would be all right.

_To be continued_


	3. I'm too far gone (to turn around)

_"True passion is not a wisp-light – it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the heart in which it has been enkindled to dust and ashes." – William Winter_

Nails scraped at the remnants of ink on the pads of his fingers. In the silence of his holding cell, there was nothing to do but focus on the marks of accusation. Nearly scratching at himself, he wasn't delusional enough to think that clean fingers would make anything, much less everything, all better. Escaping the reality of what he'd done was impossible; being in jail was proof of that.

He wasn't going to get out of this.

However frequently and willingly Cuddy had forgiven him in the past, that wasn't going to apply here. She'd pressed charges. She'd watched him be arrested. She'd probably cared that he was being taken away in handcuffs in front of Rachel. But that hadn't been enough to have her intervening on his behalf. House didn't blame her for that; he just knew after it had happened that, if she hadn't interfered then, she wasn't ever going to.

She had said goodbye to him for good.

He'd already known that, truthfully. After he'd driven his car through her home, it had been nothing more than wishful thinking to think that forgiveness could ever be on the table. She was so pissed that on some level, he knew this was it for them. It had to be. But when the handcuffs had been placed on his wrists, he had hoped – stupid as it was – that she would change her mind, that some part of their bond would reach her and make her put a stop to this.

No, he didn't deserve it. He hadn't earned anything from her with this, and there hadn't been a second where he thought he had. He'd just… wanted it. In spite of everything he had done, part of him had clung to the hope that things weren't _really_ as bad as they seemed.

Now it was clear things were worse than he could ever imagine.

The police had hauled him off the plane with a swiftness that made his leg sting and a paradoxical laziness that made Rachel's full meltdown something he'd been unable to miss. He'd done his best not to look back, not to react when he'd heard her screaming his name. The way she'd cried, she'd believed he had the power to make all of it go away – as though if she'd just shouted loud enough, he would stop walking, and the police would disappear, and it would be over. He guessed he'd hoped the same thing at the time. But knowing that _he_ would never be the one in control of _this_ , he'd had no choice but to keep walking – to not look back.

Of course, when he thought about what had happened, House didn't believe he'd have ever had the nerve to turn around. To do that would have been to face what he'd done, to see in Rachel's eyes the full breadth of his actions and the horror contained in them. He hadn't had the courage then.

And he definitely didn't have it now.

When the police had first brought him to the station, he'd spoken few words: his name, his address, an explanation for the Vicodin he kept in his pocket. He had not talked about what he'd done. He couldn't, and the second they'd wanted to press him for a confession, he had, instead, asked for his lawyer, the one Cuddy had found for him all those years ago.

The request left House feeling seedy, every bit the criminal he was. It wasn't enough to destroy his girlfriend's home and run away. He'd come back, but he was no more willing to accept the consequences of his actions. His feet couldn't take him far, not while he was in this cell, but mentally, he had yet to stop distancing himself from… _that_ moment in time. If he could accept that Cuddy hated him, that was one thing. Reluctant though he was to admit that he'd completely and permanently ruined that relationship, he wouldn't deny the obvious, not even if it meant making himself feel better. But to embrace jail? That was something else entirely. At least, it was right now.

It was too much. To be with her one moment and then tossed out of her life, to see the light at the end of the tunnel and then, with one foot on the peddle, be driven further into the darkness, to see her again and then be arrested... he didn't know how to reconcile all of those thoughts and events in his mind. And until he knew exactly what it was he wanted to do, he would buy time by asking for a lawyer. In his opinion, it was better to take that precaution now than to mistakenly confess to everything and regret it later.

Unfortunately Gemeiner wouldn't come to talk to him until the morning. By the time House had been processed, it was late, his one phone call coming after they'd let him sit in a holding cell for a while. And then when House had finally gotten in contact with his lawyer, he'd learned that the attorney was currently vacationing in the Adirondacks, which was several hours away from Princeton. Gemeiner had promised to leave right away, but even if he'd started driving the second he'd picked up the phone, it would still be a _long_ while before House ever saw him.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure that mattered. He didn't need his lawyer here to explain that he would be denied bail. He had no job now; well, technically he did, but that would be a mere formality at this point. Cuddy would have that taken care of by morning… if she hadn't already. His best friend and ex were going to testify against him, meaning House had no ties to the community – something that _Law And Order_ said was important. He hadn't _fled_ the country, but he had… left it, and that would make it difficult to get anyone to believe he would stick around like a good little boy for trial. Gemeiner, having gotten House out of the whole Tritter debacle, was a talented attorney, but even he couldn't save House now.

Maybe not ever. Because even if a jury found him not guilty or the police dropped the charges, both possibilities nothing more than a long shot as it were, House would have no way of rebuilding his life. Wilson and Cuddy hated him. The only people who had ever mattered were now estranged from him. And given that, how could he ever hope to make a life for himself again? He would have no job, no references, no friends – _nothing_. And if he went to jail, he had even less to look forward to when he got out.

If he got out, House corrected mentally. He was an addict, in constant pain. He would need Vicodin, and how long would it be before the other inmates found out? Of course, he would be a target no matter what. His personality ensured that. The fact that he had access to drugs would just make things worse for him. And frankly from his perspective, short of being a child molester, he couldn't have faced worse odds. His future couldn't be bleaker, and a lawyer wouldn't necessarily change that.

House supposed if he wanted his situation to improve, he would need to start making adjustments now.

And the first thing that would have to go?

His Vicodin.

That was the bitterest detail of all – that he should have to deny himself what he needed most, that, in a time where he felt nothing but pain, he had to willingly accept more.

He deserved it. After what he did to Cuddy, he had _more_ than earned the cramps, the pain, which would be dulled no longer, the withdrawal. This was the least he could do.

But by the same token… he had _already_ suffered. His life since the infarction had been a testament to it, every moment punctuated, dictated, _created_ by pain. Yes, he used Vicodin. Yes, he was an addict. None of that could erase the missing part of his leg, the common source of agony that was so excruciating he would prefer death. Quitting Vicodin had been to spare his mind, the only thing he had in the world worth anything to anyone. He hadn't done it, because he believed he could live without it. On the contrary, life without Vicodin had been, at times, worse than anything he could imagine. There had been moments when the medicine he allowed himself to take wasn't enough, when he had to lie to himself and to others about how _okay_ he was without the drug he'd relied on time and time again.

Then he'd started to date Cuddy. He had in his life the woman he wanted more than anything. And for a brief moment, he thought – he truly believed – things might be okay. He might be able to get used to being in her home with her daughter; he could grow to love the little girl and open himself up to her. With Cuddy, he could have a life outside of work, be appreciated for something other than his valuable mind.

But that relationship had given life to more pain for him to work through. There was the fear of failure, her mother's sickness, and then finally, what he thought was the last blow, _Cuddy's_ illness. It had been too much for him. That sounded like a cop out, but that was how he felt anyway. He'd needed someone or something to make Cuddy having _cancer_ okay. But there was _nothing_ in the world that would make _that_ all right. If she were so sick she could die, nothing else mattered. Nothing could _cheer_ him up, he thought with a scowl.

Everyone had told him to go to her. Rationally he'd understood that they were right. She needed him there; that was what was important. But he hadn't been able to sit with her when she might be sick. He just couldn't do it. He'd needed to be able to look her in the eyes and exude the strength she needed, the strength he ultimately didn't have. How was he supposed to comfort her when her illness would destroy him just as quickly as it killed her? How could he be of any use to her then?

He'd taken the Vicodin to numb him to reality. She'd accused him of refusing to share her pain, but the truth had been that that had been _precisely_ what he'd been trying to overcome by taking the pills. He'd wanted to be strong enough to be there for her, to hold her when she needed him, to lie and tell her she was going to be fine if it came to that. He'd screwed up, but all he'd ever wanted was to do the right thing. The one time he'd wanted to be as selfless as possible, he'd found himself being punished for it.

And then to look at her every day?

To watch her move on or at least try to?

That had been more than he could bear.

It was still more than he could bear.

She was hurt now, but she would move on. Her life would eventually get better. His, on the other hand, was over, no matter what happened at trial. His life would simply diminish until he died.

And that would happen, first under the delirium of withdrawal, and then with a mind sober enough to notice things getting worse each and every step of the way.

* * *

Uncontrollably he shook in the metal seat. The cheap aluminum chair felt cold against his clammy skin, and his teeth chattered loudly. Sweat made him shift about; his thigh made him regret the movement. And it was only through sheer willpower that House didn't scream out loud for the Vicodin he wanted.

Across from him was Gemeiner who was reading the police report in jeans, sneakers, and a polo shirt. He'd driven all night to get here, and his face was a monument to the exhaustion he must have felt. Eyes tiredly scanning the folder in front of him, his gaze slowly went from curiosity to dread.

House didn't like seeing his assumed inevitable imprisonment confirmed in his representation's eyes. "Is this the part where you ask me if I did it?" he asked with bitterness.

Gemeiner read off, "Burglary in the second degree. Harassment. _Five_ counts of aggravated assault. Criminal mischief. Criminal trespass. Resisting arrest, and obstruction of justice. I've been told they're considering throwing in reckless driving and a few other charges as well, so they can maximize the amount of time you're in prison. You did it, or someone really has it out for you," he said matter of factly. "Either way, we've got too much work to do for me to even consider whether or not you're guilty."

Hearing the charges listed made House's stomach do somersaults. He wanted to believe it was just the withdrawal making him feel like shit. But the fact was having his misdeeds named and categorized was terrifying. He knew what he'd done was wrong, _evil_ , but in his head, the act didn't amount to what the district attorney was leaning towards. He'd been violent and selfish but more importantly _completely_ out of his mind with jealousy and betrayal. He had been upset. But the long list of crimes Gemeiner was reading made it sound like he had no humanity at all.

And then, as sweat dripped into House's eyes, he realized: he _didn't_ have any. He did all of those things that he was being accused of. He was _guilty_. It didn't matter what the crimes were named. He had done them. And if he could do that, to the woman he _loved_ no less, there was no goodness left to be found in him.

"Now," Gemeiner interrupted. "You spent some time in a psychiatric hospital. Maybe we can use that." He looked at House pointedly. "You've obviously decided to start using Vicodin again."

"Trying to quit," House said with a bite.

His lawyer shook his head. "Don't do that. If we're going for a Vicodin defense, I need you to seem like you need the pills to function."

"I _do_."

"Yeah, well, that's not how it's going to look if you voluntarily stop taking the pills."

"If I _don't_ stop taking the Vicodin, prison isn't exactly going to be fun, you know?"

"The point is to avoid that, House. On the other hand, I can work with you quitting. It'll make you look less like an addict though. _That_ won't work in our favor."

House didn't think anything would work in his favor. Whether he was crazy or "just" a garden-variety drug addict, there wasn't anything being said so far that suggested Gemeiner had a plan that would succeed in keeping him out of jail.

Gemeiner somehow comprehended that House's thoughts had turned dark. "I won't lie to you: this is going to be a tough case to win. You're accused of trying to cause grievous harm to five different people, one of whom you never met. The most important people involved, of course, are your best friend, the award-winning oncologist, and your ex-girlfriend, your boss and a single mother who, if I remember correctly is quite beautiful." House glowered at the description. "A jury will eat that crap up. Especially if you're still detoxing then. Even more so if you run your mouth when you're not supposed to."

"Is this leading to something, or am I just paying you to tell me I'm screwed?"

Gemeiner got straight to the point. "When it's you and me, you can say whatever you want. In front of the cops, you say nothing. In the courtroom, you say _nothing_. You look serious, concerned, but you don't ever look angry. You give nothing away even if that's how you feel. You understand?"

"Yeah." House did. Given the position he was in, it was clear that he could no longer trust himself where Cuddy was concerned. Maybe he'd initially thought differently, but as time wore on, the more obvious it was that he wasn't in his right mind to trust his instincts. He couldn't trust himself to open his mouth; the chance of destruction was too real.

"Remember that when you see her."

He swallowed hard. He hadn't thought about that happening. His mind had been so focused on going backwards that he hadn't imagined what it might be like to see her in court, to hear her talk about all the things he had done to her.

Suddenly Gemeiner had him looking at the future interactions he would have with Cuddy, and things looked even more bleak than they had before.

"Yeah," Gemeiner said, as if to underline his point. "Get used to that idea. Now I can't say for certain that she'll be there at your arraignment. I personally doubt it, but she might be there to show us she's serious. She might feel that it's necessary to be there to request a restraining order against you."

House scoffed in disbelief. "A restraining order?" He understood why she would want him to stay away. He couldn't understand why she would think a court document would be necessary when she would already be doing all she could to keep him in jail. "You think she's really going to do that?"

"If they grant you bail, she might. But you're not going to get bail."

"I know."

"Good. Because what I need you to understand is that you're looking at _years_ of imprisonment."

House laughed shakily. "You think I don't know what's at stake? What I've already lost?"

"I'm not here for your self-pity. In fact, stop doing that right now. You may feel bad about what you did or didn't do, and that's fine. Whatever. But if you let that mess up with your head, you will jeopardize your case. And maybe you don't care if you spend the rest of your life in prison – which is what we're really talking about here: life. Second-degree aggravated assault is subject to five to ten years in prison. Multiply that by five, House. You're a dead man. And even if I ignore the numbers, the fact is: boys like you don't do well in prison. You cause trouble, get into fights. They might not sentence you to life, but someone like you could very well make it that way," Gemeiner pointed out without any hint of sympathy in his voice. "Again, maybe you don't care about that. But this is my case now, and you are _not_ to lose it for me. Understand?"

House nodded his head. His mouth moved like he wanted to say something, but he didn't have the words to describe what he was thinking, feeling. There were no words to voice just how much he wanted to close his eyes and wake up like nothing had happened. Part of him needed to believe that all of this was just a bad dream, that he couldn't really be looking at that much prison time. But he didn't have a way to ask for those reassurances – nor did he have anyone who would offer him them. So he stayed quiet.

"Good. It's important you understand how bad this can get if you let your guilt get in the way. Now's the part where I tell you that we can make a good case of this – if you help me."

House wasn't sure what to do. He was guilty. But he didn't want to die in prison. He didn't want to go the rest of his life without there being any possibility of making things right with Cuddy or Wilson. His career written off as a joke, his mother dying without a family member to visit her grave… those were things House couldn't accept, no matter how awful he had been or was.

Reluctantly but with an odd sense of determination as well, he asked, "What do I need to do?"

Gemeiner smiled coldly. It wasn't friendliness; it was pleasure that he had gotten the most difficult man he'd ever known to cooperate. "I need to know everything that led up to what _allegedly_ happened. Anything you can think of about weeks or months, I need to hear about. The sooner I know what was going on, the sooner we can start to develop your argument."

House wasn't sure where to start. So much had happened these last few months that it was impossible to know what was relevant and what was better left unsaid. So he told all, starting with, "She dumped me. We were doing great, and then… she got sick. Blood in the urine – we thought she had cancer. I took Vicodin to deal with it, and she found out. And –"

"So you tried to kill your _cancer_ -ridden –"

"She didn't have cancer. She's fine." Gemeiner seemed relieved to hear that news. "But she was mad, so she broke up with me."

"What happened after that?"

"I don't know." House's head bobbled with indecision. He really couldn't explain the depths to which he sunk after that. "I kept using. Spent several weeks with prostitutes. Jumped off a hotel balcony. Into a pool." He added that part all the while knowing that that didn't make the act any better. "I got married – to piss her off, I guess. Then there was this drug the hospital was testing on rodents. It was supposed to regenerate muscle, so I took it." He scratched his head nervously. It made even less sense when he said it out loud. "The drug causes tumors, and as it turns out, that's what happens in people as well."

"So _you_ had cancer," Gemeiner said with a smile.

"Not exactly."

"But that's what people will think. Tumors are cancer. That's good. We can use that."

"I tried to remove the tumors myself. When that didn't work, I had to call Cuddy. And…." House stopped talking when he noticed his lawyer was holding a hand in the air.

"That's enough for me to start with. I'll need access to all your medical records from that time, and if you could let me talk to your… _wife_ and if you have the names of any of the women you slept with –"

" _Yeah_ , I may not have shown the best judgment the last couple of months, but I'm _pretty_ sure _hookers_ don't talk to lawyers about their clients."

"Probably not," Gemeiner admitted. "But I'm willing to see what a few bribes, at your expense of course, will get me."

"Fine."

"At this point, it's worth a shot, House."

He knew what that meant. "You don't think I have a good case."

The lawyer shook his head. "On the contrary, I think you've given me a lot to work with. A medical genius in constant pain falls in love only to be dumped. He's on a downward spiral when he discovers cancer-like tumors in his leg, the very thing that is the source of his drug and mental problems. And in that time of need, he has to rely on the very woman who broke his heart. It's perfect."

The way he put it, it _did_ sound tragic, sympathetic.

House didn't think though that it made his behavior any less horrifying.

Nothing could take away the sting of _that_.

* * *

Not surprisingly he didn't get bail. Fleeing the country tended to cast doubt on your ability to stick around town for a trial. Even if Gemeiner hadn't warned him, this was a fact House was already well aware of.

Against his lawyer's advice, he hadn't started to take the Vicodin again. When jail was inevitable, he couldn't risk the complications drugs would create. Of course, House had a hard time believing the police would have handed him pills any time he asked for them. It was possible that, even if he had followed Gemeiner's orders, the cops would _not_. And as such, it was just as well to go through the majority of withdrawal over the weekend, while House waited to be arraigned. It wasn't easy to do, not by any means. Every moment had been filled with the possibility of defeat. But House had resisted, the increase in pain somehow alleviating and distracting from the horror of his actions.

By the time he first appeared in court, he only had the slightest bit of nausea and malaise left. Most of his symptoms gone, he was clear headed to take in with painful understanding what the district attorney was saying about him. As he was inundated with charges, House could only think that he was relieved Cuddy wasn't there.

No one he knew was.

That fact wasn't entirely pleasing. With all the careers he'd helped shape, part of him had maybe _hoped_ that _someone_ would view that as reason enough to show up in support. But then he remembered that he didn't talk to the fellows that had come before Foreman, Chase, and Cameron anymore. Foreman had quit to escape him… only to be forced to rejoin the team by a world that believed he was already tainted from working with him. Chase had been fired and had chosen to rejoin… only to lose his wife. Cameron had quit and never looked back. The woman who had once wanted him wanted nothing to do with him or anyone who saw value in what he did.

Kutner and Amber were dead. Taub was probably too busy having an orgy with several women too gorgeous to be slumming it with him. Thirteen had gone to prison, and she, perhaps too much like him, knew that her probation would be questioned if she were to hang around with someone being charged with several crimes. And with Cuddy and Wilson hating him, there really wasn't anyone to be there for him.

There was no one left to be his friend.

But that wasn't entirely a sad fact either. At least this way, no one got to see him taken out of the courtroom in hand cuffs.

That was a small consolation, considering he was going straight from the courthouse to _jail_. Just because no one witnessed it didn't mean they wouldn't know eventually. And even if he could keep this turn of events to himself, that didn't make being transported to jail any better.

The second he was pulled out of the police car and dragged into the building he would spend the next several months living, he understood:

_Nothing_ could make _this_ better.

That said, his entrance into the prison system was rather quiet. His lawyer had told him to behave, and House didn't have any intention of creating any more problems for himself. But being processed early Monday morning, he didn't even have a chance to fight the prisoners who had been convicted. From what House gathered, they were being kept in their cells while the new prisoners were brought into system and those in solitary got a chance to go down to breakfast.

As House's brand new five pack of underwear and plastic watch (provided by Gemeiner and no one else) was checked for hidden items, he was surprised at how… quiet the building was. Sure, everywhere around him, there were conversations going on. Staff talking to one another, to prisoners, the din of other prisoners talking to one another in the distance – there was noise all around him. But it wasn't like he imagined.

He thought there would be fights happening in every corner. TV had taught him not to drop the soap, to expect violence at all times and from all people. Maybe that would turn out to be true in the end, he thought grimly. For now though, things seemed calm.

After he changed into his orange jumpsuit, he was walked to his cell. The few belongings he was allowed to keep in his hands, he did his best to maintain his balance without his cane. Over time, he assumed it would become easier; he would learn where all the nooks were he could grab onto, where the cracks in the floor were. He would learn the perils around him, and he would eventually know to avoid them. In the meantime, he would have to shuffle about without it. Well, maybe "have to" was too strong a word. The guards had offered to let him keep it, but they cautioned against it. As the fat guard had told him, "Could become a weapon, you know?"

He decided to go without it. Like the Vicodin, it would be left behind.

Truthfully, it wasn't like he would _need_ it. The first few days, if there was one thing he figured out, it was that: there really wasn't anything to do in jail. Most hours he was in his cell simply waiting for the next part of the day to begin. Outdoor activities excluded House on principle; basketball was a favorite among the inmates, but thanks to his leg, he couldn't exactly play, now could he? In the evenings, other prisoners settled down to a game of cards, and he wouldn't mind participating in that. But he always decided against it. Poker was a good way to get into a fight, and that was the last thing he needed.

Nights were punctuated by the sounds of scurrying rats and the occasional conversation between cellmates nearby, making it hard to sleep. And the early laundry service and wake up time left him constantly tired.

After a week, all House wanted to do was _get out_. He didn't have a roommate just yet, a fact he hoped wouldn't change while he was here. The other prisoners didn't like him. He didn't try to hang out with him, instead choosing to spend his time making his way through the limited selection of books in the library. He had a scar that somehow always earned him a few looks of disgusts, confusion, and who knew what else when he got out of the showers. So far no one had said anything to him – about his leg or otherwise. But the longer he stayed here, the more exhaustion wore down his self-control, the worse things would get.

He wasn't learning much, reading the equivalent of an eight grade English class's syllabus. But if he had picked up on one thing, it was that this precarious situation would change eventually.

And not for the better.

* * *

When they got off the plane, Cuddy didn't consider returning to her mother's. Rachel was inconsolable, crying so hard that she was beginning to retch from the strain, and Cuddy didn't think that would be something her mother could tolerate. Better stated, she didn't think she could handle the stress of her mother and her daughter – not after the plane ride she'd just taken.

Simply being in the same space as House left her shaken. This was a man she'd known for years, had dated for nearly twelve months. This was someone she was supposed to be able to trust, even if it would never be enough to sustain a relationship.

He was not supposed to be someone who made her feel like _this_.

Cuddy refused to admit that she was scared. She was _upset_ , much more so because she now had to carry her screaming toddler through the airport. The second they were off the plane, she did her best to calm her daughter down. But Rachel didn't respond to being bounced up and down in her mother's arms, didn't like being kissed, and didn't believe Cuddy when she tried to tell her everything would be okay.

Exhausted from the flight and the barrage of emotions she felt from sitting next to House, she didn't have the energy to try anything else. And instead of spending more time consoling Rachel, Cuddy made the undignified choice of hurrying to get her baggage and escape the airport. This was not how things were supposed to end. He wasn't supposed to make her feel _this_ awful, but Cuddy could see with startling clarity that this was now her life. Fear and anger, disgust and embarrassment had become part and parcel, and the screaming baby in her arms was just one more thing she would have to get used to.

Uncharacteristic for her, Rachel didn't calm down in the car ride to the hotel nearest to the hospital. If anything being buckled in her car seat just made her angrier, more agitated. She kicked and screamed until she threw up all over herself and fell into despair.

Tears quickly rolled down her red cheeks, and Cuddy felt her own guilt kick her in the stomach.

If only she hadn't gotten on that plane. If only she hadn't complained about House being there. If only she hadn't dated him at all, none of this would be happening.

House was more to blame, of course. He had made choices that she was now reeling to deal with, and the anger and sadness Rachel felt weren't entirely the result of Cuddy's choices. But at the end of the day, House _wasn't_ Rachel's parent.

Cuddy was.

And it had been her responsibility all along to protect Rachel from this.

She'd known that at the start. Hadn't that been why she'd been so reluctant to let House spend any time with Rachel? Because as much as she wanted to be with him, some part of her had intuitively understood that House had no business being around a child? Given what would happen months later, she had to think that those reservations had been a sign – which she had chosen to ignore in order to please _him_.

At that moment, it didn't seem like enough to promise never to do it again. She'd done it once, and that was plenty. The ramifications of which were now all around her, screaming in the backseat.

Cuddy did her best to ignore the sound. It broke her heart to do so, but she had no other choice. Half-baked attempts to reassure her hadn't worked so far. Rachel needed her full attention, and that meant Cuddy needed to get them into the hotel where, once alone, she could put all of her effort into making her daughter feel better.

By the time that happened though, Rachel had stopped crying on her own. She had come to the conclusion that no one was going to make console her, maybe even that nobody _could_ do that. She was withdrawn, sullen.

For Cuddy, it was another mistake to add to a long list when it came to being a mother and one that she feared would not be so easy to rectify.

"Come on, honey," she said softly, as soon as she'd managed to close the hotel room door behind her. Bewildered by her new surroundings, Rachel was too confused to fight being plucked up off her feet. Her gaze wandering as she tried to take in the hotel room, she barely listened to Cuddy when she told her, "Let's go take a bath, okay?"

Rachel was quiet as she was carried into the bathroom, said nothing as Cuddy started to run the bath water.

"I know you love House very much," Cuddy said, pulling Rachel's t-shirt off. "I know you miss him."

Rachel shook her head. As though she were embarrassed or thought her mother would disapprove, she didn't want to admit what Cuddy could see obviously. "No."

"It's okay, Rachel." Cuddy kissed her forehead before helping her out of the rest of her clothes. "He was your friend. He liked to play with you and let you watch TV you weren't supposed to watch and gave you food you weren't supposed to eat before dinner. Right?"

"Like cheese doodles."

"Like that, yeah." When she slipped her hand under the running water, the temperature had become too warm. Cuddy quickly pushed the lever to the right but warned Rachel anyway, "Don't get in. It's too hot right now." Thankfully, Rachel didn't try to disobey, allowing Cuddy to pull off her own clothing without having to suddenly grab Rachel.

When they'd settled into the bathtub together, Rachel on her lap, Cuddy felt comfortable enough to broach the topic once more. Her chin was nestled against Rachel's wet hair, and Rachel was half-heartedly playing with the bar of soap. Although Cuddy didn't exactly want to talk about House anymore, it was necessary. Rachel seemed okay now, but Cuddy couldn't leave the conversation here. She needed Rachel to understand that, while it was all right for her to have formed an attachment to him, that was over.

"It's okay if you were happy to see House, you know. He was nice to you on the plane, wasn't he?"

Rachel nodded her head emphatically. "Uh huh."

"Good." It wasn't. "But remember how I told you that we wouldn't be seeing House for a while?"

This time the nod was reluctant. "Yes."

"Well… that's still true. He's not going to be coming around and seeing us for a little bit." Technically it would be more than "a little bit." Cuddy was hoping that his absence would last the rest of her life. After what he did, eternity didn't seem like enough time away from him. It would be too much for Rachel to hear that though, and so Cuddy tried to keep her explanation as simple as possible.

But her efforts didn't pay off. Rachel looked up in confusion anyway. "But why?" she asked.

"Rachel…." Cuddy wasn't sure how to explain it. "He did some very, _very_ bad things, and he can't…." She paused, not liking the way it sounded and tried again. "He's really sick right now, and he has to get better before he can come over. The policemen today? Remember them?"

"Yes. They get bad guys," Rachel said in explanation. Thankfully, she'd learned more in her few years of life than how to speak like a pirate.

Cuddy kissed her in praise. "That's right. That's exactly right, my smart little girl."

That wasn't what Rachel wanted to hear. Instantly she struggled to get away from her mother. "House isn't _bad_."

The knife twisted deeper at that moment. No matter what he had done, Cuddy would always have to protect his reputation in front of the only person who mattered to _her_. She would never be free to speak ill of him, never be able to indulge in her loathing. Because to do that would be to destroy Rachel's faith in the world and in one of the people she trusted, _loved_ , more than anything. And Cuddy couldn't do that, which meant she would always have to be careful; she would always have to lie about what had happened, _minimize_ what he had done.

He deserved all the hatred she could muster, but even now, even after all of this, he wouldn't get it.

"No. He just made some mistakes, and he has to be sorry about that. But right now, he doesn't want to admit that he did something bad." That might not have been the truth. At this point, it was hard to say what was motivating House, and she was doing her best not to think of his thought process either way. She needed, however, to say something, and a lie was as good as whatever the truth might have been. "So until he admits that he wasn't very nice, he can't come around. Okay?"

Rachel shook her head. "But I want to see him."

"I know, but that can't happen right now."

No child liked being told no, and Rachel was no exception to that rule. The idea of being kept away from House even temporarily was more than she could handle; she wanted things the way they had been for nearly a year. She wanted to be home, her mother to be happy, to have him in her life, and she couldn't understand why none of those things were possible right now. Cuddy wouldn't let her see enough of the truth for comprehension to even begin to happen. House being arrested in front of her was more than Rachel ever needed to witness, and for that reason, Cuddy was determined to keep her ignorant to the rest. On that she would remain firm.

That fact made clear, it instantly frustrated Rachel. "No!" she shouted, slapping the water surrounding them with one of her small hands.

Cuddy wasn't sure what to say. They'd had this conversation before, right after they'd first run into House. She'd hoped that by reiterating that, while it was okay to miss House, he wasn't going to be in their lives, Rachel would give up. The more Cuddy emphasized that he needed to go away for a little while, the more, she'd envisioned, Rachel would accept that fact. Instead the opposite seemed to be true. Bringing him up only made Rachel more upset. Explanations served to make her want him more, and while Cuddy didn't relish the idea of silence, maybe it was better to not talk about it again.

"Shh…. It's all right. Calm down," she said in a soothing voice. "Maybe…." She licked her lips, as if trying to make the lie come out easier. "Maybe we can see him sometime. But right now, it's just going to be you and me, and… and we'll have a _lot_ of fun, all right?"

Rachel's tantrum went on hold. Her body remained tense against Cuddy's, making it clear that, with one wrong word, the kicking and crying would start up again. Cuddy chose her words carefully.

"I know you miss him. I… I-I do too. But we can still have fun together, just the two of us. We had fun on the beach together, didn't we?"

Rachel nodded her head slowly. "I like to swim."

"I know you do. And we can still do fun things by ourselves. I don't know if you know this," Cuddy said conspiratorially. "But I've heard this hotel likes to give ice cream sundaes to good little girls."

It was a bribe, yes. It was a distraction, of course. It was also an effective way of getting Rachel's attentions away from House.

Cuddy knew that this wasn't the healthiest way to go about things. She didn't intend to fill House's place with food, and she didn't want Rachel to grow up thinking differently. But for right now, for this second, she wasn't above this particular tactic. If a little ice cream calmed Rachel down and kept her mind off of House long enough for her to _forget him_ , Cuddy had no problem with that.

Rachel didn't have a problem with it either. "I like ice cream," she said with a smile.

"I know. You want a sundae after we get out?" Rachel nodded her head. "Okay. We'll do that."

"Yay!"

Cuddy didn't feel good about successfully distracting her daughter. But it was necessary, she told herself. Anything to keep Rachel's mind off of seeing the closest thing she'd had to a father _arrested_ was acceptable for the time being. And if Cuddy had to spoil her for a little bit, she could deal with that. It would only be temporary anyway.

Naturally though that didn't stop her from resenting House for creating this situation. She did her best to keep the feeling hidden from Rachel, but inside the emotion churned hotly. Even when he was in _jail_ (she assumed he was there), he was still interfering with her life. He was still making things worse for her.

When she'd broken up with him, she'd never thought….

Understanding interrupted the sentence, because she realized then how off track things had become. Forget when she'd dumped him; when she'd started to _date_ him, she'd never believed this would happen, that he could be capable of doing any of this.

Was that a result of naïveté, she wondered, or had she drawn it out of him? It wouldn't have been intentional, but had she somehow made him this way? Was she being punished for her ignorance or because she had taken a fragile man and broken him?

Whatever the case, she _was_ being penalized for something.

The cops had taken him away, but thanks to Rachel, he was no longer the only one imprisoned by his behavior.

Cuddy glanced down at her daughter. With a forced smile, she asked, "How about we wash your hair?"

* * *

She couldn't sleep. The bed beneath her was soft, the covers warm against her skin, which was perfect given the cool temperature the room was currently set at. Rachel had gone down easily after running around the place for over an hour in a sugar-induced haze. After chasing after her and playing with her, Cuddy thought that sleep should have come to her just as quickly.

It didn't. Although Rachel hadn't mentioned House once, Cuddy's mind seemed determined to stick to that topic anyway.

Maybe that was to be expected. The more she didn't want to think about him in the past, the more she usually did. He had a way of lingering when she least wanted him to. After she saw him today, why wouldn't she think about him?

She wondered where he was. In jail probably, _hopefully_ , she guessed, but in the dark of her nice hotel room, she found herself thinking about how his evening had turned out. Was he lying on a metal cot somewhere? Confessing to his crime?

On the other hand, she'd ended up in a beautiful penthouse, an impractical choice to be sure, but just what she needed after the day she'd had. Well, that wasn't exactly the truth. What she wanted was to be in _her_ home, in _her_ bed. Obviously that wasn't an option. Trying to explain to her mother or her sister why she'd returned so early from her trip wasn't appealing; living through that plane ride had been enough for Cuddy. And since she didn't have any friends she could stay with, a hotel was her only option.

The penthouse was a good choice for the time being. There was a separate room she could put Rachel in, giving Cuddy the smallest bit of privacy. There was a kitchen she could cook in, a beautiful view. It wasn't where she wanted to be, but it was nice enough that she could handle living here until…

She didn't know how to finish that sentence. Whether she moved back into her home or not, it would take a while before the house was livable again. Once more the comparison to House entered her mind: would he be in jail by then? On trial? Would he be free for his crimes and ready to harm her again?

Suddenly she didn't want to move back into the place he'd destroyed. There were too many memories there – of him kissing her in the hallway when she'd lost Joy, him snuggling with her on the couch as they'd watched a movie, him making her breakfast and serving it to her in bed; he now tainted every room.

It _killed_ her to think that she would have to move permanently because of _him_. She had nurtured her home from its leaky roof to the rotting wood on the porch in the back. She had painted every wall, chosen every inch of décor. Nothing had been left to someone else's taste. It was a testament to who she had been when she'd first come to live there. It was a shrine to who she was now.

She had become a mother in that house.

But all of that seemed overshadowed by someone who wasn't worthy of any place in her mind.

She hated that she was wasting time thinking about him, about what he had done. He'd destroyed her home and walked away as though nothing had happened. He'd gone straight to Fiji like what he'd needed was some _leisure_ after he'd worked so hard to screw up his own life and then her own. At no point had thoughts of _her_ entered his mind; his behavior was proof enough of that. And knowing that, she felt that she should have been able to do the same right back to him. If he didn't care about her, she shouldn't have cared about him. If he couldn't spare a single thought for _her_ , there was something wrong with her if she couldn't do the same in return.

But in the end, the more she wanted to think of something else, the less she seemed to be able to. Rage towards her mind did little to stop the thought process she was caught in. As the night passed, she thought only of what he had done, what he was now doing, and how she was supposed to continue her life after all of it. The sounds of her home being destroyed, the shock at seeing him exit the car – and then not being shocked at all – it played over and over in her head. The moment repeating until tears stung her eyes, she understood that she could _not_ go back there.

She couldn't _live_ there ever again. Although that house would always mean something to her, Cuddy understood that she would be trapped by the memories, reminded of the fear she'd felt and the disgust that still lingered. If she wanted Rachel to move on, Cuddy knew that that started with her. _She_ had to move on first.

For her own sanity, she would buy a new house, she decided in the dark, nodding her head with a firmness no one could see. It would be difficult enough to go on. She'd trusted him; she'd thought he was someone who would _never_ hurt her like this. To be wrong about that meant… she could be wrong about so many things. Untangling wrong perceptions from the right ones would be hard enough without the constant reminder of the one time she'd failed spectacularly. She wouldn't subject herself to living _there_ anymore, no matter how much she loved that house.

She just hoped she wouldn't have to make the same choice when it came to her job. Because if she could no longer work in the hospital, where she had spent _years_ with House, she would know then:

He had truly destroyed everything in her life.

_To be continued_


	4. I used to dream that you were an angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the beginning of a few appearances from Dominika (her name is only mentioned at the end in this chapter). She plays a small part in this fic but one that I feel is necessary in addressing House's behavior. Her presence will not be gratuitous, and the tone of those scenes will be different than those involving her in season 7 and, from what I'm told, season 8. Still I'm including this warning, because I know she's a controversial character, and I don't want anyone to be taken by surprise.
> 
> Disclaimer: Show's not mine.

" _True passion is not a wisp-light – it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the heart in which it has been enkindled to dust and ashes." – William Winter_  


"I needed you, and you weren't there." The fact not accusation presented, he bowed his head without any defense. "You weren't there, because you were getting high." She started to cry, the anguish so deeply felt that she was surprised how clearly she could say, "You scared me. I loved you, and you did _this_ to me."

When he apologized, she knew it was a dream.

Cuddy watched him repeat how sorry he was and herself believing him.

The things he said were unmemorable: "I am so sorry Cuddy."

"I love you."

"I was scared," followed by an explanation she never would have believed in real life.

And again – "I love you."

She didn't question him, kissed him, and that was why this couldn't be real. It would never be, as it had _never_ been, this easy. This conversation would never happen, but if it did, it would take more than the display in front of her to forgive.

And just like that, Cuddy woke up.

It was still dark out, a clock telling her it was just four in the morning. She didn't bother deluding herself with tales of time differences waking her up. It was because of the dream, still vivid in her mind. The vestiges of consciousness couldn't bear to see him or herself forgive him for what he'd done. That was why she was awake.

For the very same reason, she had no desire to go back to sleep. If House were what awaited her, she would prefer to be up.

It was probably for the best anyway. Even without the bad dream, sleep was less useful to her now that she was back in New Jersey. She wanted to say now that she was _home_ , but she couldn't, thanks to House. But instead of making her angry, that fact became further proof that being awake, getting things _accomplished,_ was important right now.

Lying in bed, she made a mental note of how her day would go. Shower, get dressed, feed Rachel – those were all the normal tasks she could get through quickly. Then she'd have to make the drive to her mother's storage unit where all of Cuddy's possessions were surely being housed since House had gone _insane_. Maybe she'd get her car washed along the way; Rachel would enjoy the drive through it, and she was a little girl in desperate need of some enjoyment.

Since Fiji _hadn't_ done that.

At some point of course, Cuddy would have to hand her daughter off. Marina was her first choice (less questions), but Cuddy was prepared to deal with her mother if it meant sparing Rachel the sight of her home. That was something no one should see – the place they lived in destroyed. Cuddy could attest to that personally. But she especially wanted to spare her daughter that trauma.

And yet going to the house would be a must.

By now Arlene would have hired and supervised the beginning stages of a renovation. But as grateful as she was, Cuddy wanted to make sure the repair plans were suitable. Now that she had intentions of selling the place, it was even more important that things were handled properly.

After that, she wasn't sure what she should do. Part of being nearly murdered was that there were so many loose ends to tie: people to reassure and apologize to, work to catch up on, and obligations to fulfill. And the truth was she didn't have the heart for any of it.

If not for her pride, she would have been content to hide. If not for Rachel, she would have been willing to sit back and let this kill her.

In her head, it sounded overly dramatic.

In her heart, she knew it wasn't.

There weren't words to describe what he had done to her, how wrong it was. To say it was awful was an understatement. To say that he had betrayed her didn't even begin to encompass what had happened. Because aside from the violence of the act, there was added insult in _House_ being the person who appeared in the wreckage. That, of all the people capable of such terror, _he_ was the one to do it made the whole event so much worse. He was supposed to be the one person who would never do that to her.

Even after they'd broken up, she'd never thought it would be this bad. She'd thought that the relationship (she hesitated to describe it as a friendship) they'd had before dating would be enough to smooth over any hurt feelings. She'd thought he'd cared about her enough for that to happen, because after all they'd experienced together, how could he _not_ want to protect her in the way she had protected him? Well, he'd found a way.

And now… she knew she was supposed to rise above what had happened. That was what people in her situation were expected to do: get back up, continue on, show through their behavior that they knew they were better than the one who had hurt them. Cuddy didn't doubt that she was superior to _him_. But as for the rest of it? She didn't have it in her. The opposite was true in her case, or at least, it would be if she didn't have Rachel to worry about.

Only because her daughter needed her, Cuddy got out of bed then. For Rachel, she had no choice but to continue.

Cuddy decided to start small: shower. Her muscles had not faired well on the unfamiliar mattress last night, and there was no way she was going to be able to chase after Rachel when she was this stiff. But the hot water didn't do much to relax Cuddy. Afraid of where her thoughts would end up, she didn't allow herself to let go. She rigidly went through the process of shampooing her hair, shaving her legs, washing her body. Every step of the way, she focused intently on the act. Making sure she'd rinsed all of the conditioner from her hair hardly required concentration, but it was safer this way. It would keep her numb.

Soon after though, it became apparent that the effort wasn't necessary; Rachel's cries came the second Cuddy had finished cleaning herself, and she no longer needed a distraction. The day was now officially started.

Loosely wrapped in a towel, Cuddy hurried to her daughter, who at first glance looked absolutely bewildered by her surroundings.

"Good morning," she said, quickly scooping Rachel into her arms. "Why's my little girl up so early?" Cranky and confused, Rachel didn't say anything. She just buried her face into Cuddy's still damp shoulder. Cuddy patted her back and told her in a soft, bright voice, "How about we try to go potty? Hmm?" Again there was no answer, but that was to be expected. Rachel was too out of sorts to say yes or no.

That didn't change for several minutes either. She just allowed herself to be moved from the room and did as her mother told her. Cuddy was tempted to enjoy it, but she knew that the moment wouldn't last long. Besides, around the edges of her quiet demeanor, Rachel displayed signs of irritation. She didn't fight when Cuddy placed her on the toilet, didn't object to having her teeth brushed. But all along the way, her dark blue eyes looked as though they would at any moment burst into tears. Cuddy wasn't sure if that was because of jet lag, exhaustion, or the scene she had witnessed yesterday.

No, she thought as she set Rachel on the bed so Cuddy could dress herself. There was no question about what might be making Rachel sad. It was about House. It had to be. Certainly the time zone and a new hotel to adapt to contributed to the churlishness and sadness Cuddy saw lurking beneath the surface. But those factors were only ones that made witnessing House's arrest that much worse.

And what could she do about that? As Cuddy rummaged through her suitcase for a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, she knew that she had a limited ability to make Rachel feel better. She could lie about what had happened to House; she could try to placate Rachel in some way. But she couldn't give her daughter what she needed. Rachel wanted to see that House was all right. She wanted to know that her mother wasn't angry with him, that she didn't hate him. Rachel wanted things to be exactly as they had this past winter. That could never happen, however.

Getting dressed, Cuddy understood that that was where the conversation would always have to end. She couldn't let Rachel think reconciliation was a possibility. Yet to insistently dismiss any concerns about House would be just as cruel. Until Rachel could comprehend that House was gone for good, Cuddy would have to be on guard with how she spoke about him in front of Rachel. She couldn't let it become obvious just how much she really did hate the man she'd once welcomed into her home. That would have to be her secret.

Pushing that truth down as far as it would go, she turned back to Rachel who was lightly beating her feet against the mattress beneath her. Forcing herself to smile, Cuddy asked with a smile, "How about we get some breakfast?"

* * *

Sometime between pancakes and the visit to the storage unit, whatever control Rachel had had over her emotions disappeared. Before, Cuddy had seen Rachel's frustration, but Rachel had been calm _enough_. There'd been some momentary whining when breakfast hadn't come as quickly as she would have liked. Yet it had been nothing compared to the _screeching_ she'd resorted to five minutes into the car ride to the storage unit.

Cuddy had hoped that the car wash would cheer Rachel up, but the brushes rumbling over the car, which normally made Rachel clap with joy, had done nothing for her. By the time Cuddy got to the unit, she'd had enough. The second she parked, her only goal was to stop the crying coming from the back seat.

She didn't care about getting clothes from storage then. That could wait. Rachel couldn't, that fact made obvious by the way she practically clamored for Cuddy to take her out of her car seat.

"Honey, what's wrong?" she asked, pulling her red, shaking daughter to her chest. Cuddy held her close and rubbed her back. The gesture didn't do much for Rachel, but that wasn't surprising.

On the whole, Rachel was… a remarkably easy child. Whatever issues there'd been with bonding early on, that had been completely Cuddy's fault. Her daughter couldn't have been better natured. She was sweet, curious, a _little_ naughty at times. But one thing she had never been was a child who was prone to throwing fits. Obviously there were exceptions to that, like when she'd first started teething. Cuddy wasn't so doting that she couldn't see that. For the most part though, Rachel was easy to console when she got upset. All she needed was to be held close and rocked, and eventually, she would calm down. And that meant that if she'd been crying for this long, it would be stupid to think that she would instantly calm down. "It's okay, Rachel. Shhh. Talk to Mommy. Tell me what's wrong."

It didn't work.

Unsure of what to do, Cuddy sat down on the curb next to the car. The fact that she was trying to comfort her daughter in a parking lot was not lost on her. And even as she searched over Rachel's tiny body for some clue as to what had happened, she couldn't help but feel incredibly aware of her surroundings. At any moment, someone could stumble upon her with her whining daughter in her arms. Cuddy didn't mind being caught as much as she minded being caught without any plan to make Rachel stop.

"Calm down," she said, trying to get through to Rachel. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened."

When that didn't make the situation any better, it became obvious what the problem was. This wasn't an injury of some sort, tears that were the result of being pinched by her car seat or anything like that. She didn't feel sick. The pancakes hadn't made her nauseous. And while jetlag was a definite possibility, Rachel had slept enough between last night and plane ride to prevent fits like the one she was having. Which left one reason behind her behavior.

House.

It was an obvious reason, one Cuddy didn't feel stupid for missing until now. In a way, her blindness to the solution was proof that she'd known the answer all along. She didn't want to talk about him anymore. She didn't want her daughter to think about him or be sad because of him. In a stunning unintentional act of defiance, Rachel ignored her wishes. And Cuddy hadn't even considered this the potential source of Rachel's sadness, because doing so would mean that she had an obligation to try to make Rachel feel better. In service of that obligation, she would have to say things she didn't mean, make promises to Rachel that she could never keep. None of which would actually ease Rachel's suffering, because at some point, she would realize House was gone from their lives permanently; she would feel then all of the same sadness she was feeling in this very moment. But it would be worse than that, because then there would be nothing Cuddy could say, no lies to tell, that would appease Rachel. They had been through this once last night. Cuddy wasn't sure how many more times she could claim that _maybe_ they could see House again some day before Rachel stopped trusting her.

Not wanting that, Cuddy didn't know what to say. There was nothing _to_ say. If there were words that could encompass the shock, loss, and betrayal they were both experiencing, if there were a way to take that pain and make everything okay again, she would tell her that. She would tell _herself_ that. That was why she knew the right phrase didn't exist, because Rachel wasn't the only one who needed reassurance right now.

Without any options, any way out, Cuddy found herself saying, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Rachel."

The apology seemed necessary. She had failed her daughter by letting her anywhere near House, and she was failing her now by putting her in a predicament Cuddy couldn't make any better. Not for a second did she believe that this would make any of that any easier. "I'm sorry" couldn't fix this mess.

It was no surprise then that it didn't. Rachel continued to cry for at least another five _long_ minutes. Selfishly Cuddy wished this were a tantrum, something that could be stopped easily. But Rachel wasn't throwing a fit; her tears were ones of mourning, and as such, it meant that Cuddy could only sit back and wait for Rachel to calm down.

Eventually the crying ebbed. Cuddy understood that it could start up again at any time. Every time they'd been in the car since returning to New Jersey, Rachel had gotten upset. Maybe that was because one of the last times she'd seen House, he had been bleeding in the back seat of one. But then again, that might have been reading into Rachel's behavior, and either way, the cause didn't matter. Even if the problem was the car, Rachel couldn't travel by foot for the rest of her life. She would have to deal with driving – and Cuddy would have to deal with whatever emotional response that might provoke in her daughter.

"Feel a little bit better?" Cuddy asked gently, not wanting to think about how much longer this might go on. Rachel didn't answer. "All right. Let's get some of Mommy's things from storage."

Not surprisingly Rachel didn't get excited, but she allowed herself to be carried to the garage door.

"I need to put you down so I can get the keys."

Rachel shook her head. "No."

"You want Mommy to hold you?" Her answer was to cling to Cuddy, and Cuddy didn't have the heart to put her on her feet. "Okay, all right. Can you help me find my keys?" Rachel nodded her head a little. "Thank you. Mommy's little helper," Cuddy said kissing her daughter's cheek. "Can you put your hand in my purse? See if you can find something that feels like keys."

It took a moment for Rachel to get the hang of it, but once she did, it quickly became a game for Rachel. Rummaging through Cuddy's purse, she started to enjoy the mystery of trying to pull out the storage key that Cuddy always kept in the bottom of her bag. The moment, of course, couldn't last.

When they got into the unit, Cuddy realized that her mother had been particularly industrial the past week. Before her was not just the most valuable things and clothing; her mom had put _everything_ into storage. Cuddy knew that made sense; she wasn't sure what she was expecting, as it would have been stupid to leave things in the house. Nevertheless, she hadn't anticipated stepping into the room and seeing all of Rachel's belongings – her crib, her toys, even the rocking chair – crammed and left to the side.

Neither had Rachel.

"My toys!" was all she managed to say before the tears returned.

* * *

By the time Cuddy got to the hospital, she was relieved to have left Rachel behind. It was terrible to think this, but Cuddy needed a break from all the crying. She didn't doubt that this was hard for her daughter; it was, especially since Rachel had little understanding of what it meant to move and why it was happening. But this wasn't exactly easy for Cuddy either. And watching her daughter go from a sweet and sunny child to one who was sad and confused made it all the more difficult to handle, made it harder to believe that this was something she could overcome. Rachel needed her for comfort, but that need wore Cuddy down quickly. Frankly, she was happy to leave Rachel with Marina and even happier to have work as a distraction.

As wrong as it seemed, Cuddy knew that she would be of no use if she'd stayed with Rachel. That dynamic was disheartening and swiftly becoming too much for her. She needed to step away. She needed to give Rachel someone who _genuinely_ believed and could convey that everything would be all right. And maybe if Cuddy focused on her job long enough, she could come to believe that as well.

It seemed odd to think that. The second she stepped into the hospital, with every inch of the building steeped in memories of House, it seemed counterintuitive that this would be the one place she thought would provide a distraction. But the regular chaos of the hospital made escape possible, because she was immediately ambushed with questions to answer and tasks to complete.

"Peds is requesting extra security. I thought you were on vacation," Regina said, leaving her post behind the nurse's desk to greet Cuddy.

"Vacation's over. Why are they asking you for –"

" _They_ seem to think I'm your assistant and that if they pester me enough, I'll make sure you give them what you want." Regina reached back and grabbed several pieces of paper and a few folders. "Messages, plans waiting your approval, invitation to join the board next week for a meeting."

Cuddy raised an eyebrow. "An invitation?"

As they walked to her office, Regina suggested sarcastically, "You could decline, I'm sure."

"That would go over well." Cuddy unlocked the doors to her office. "Thank you."

Regina hesitated to leave, even though she must have realized she had permission. "You want a cup of coffee?"

"You're not my assistant."

"No. But you look tired, and diagnostics is a mess."

"I _know_ ," Cuddy said darkly.

"Between you and me, I'm all for letting them kill one another. But that's a lot of blood to clean up."

"I'll take care of it."

This time the dismissal wasn't optional, and Regina knew it. "Okay. I'll get you that cup of coffee… and let peds know –"

"Have them send someone down to explain the situation. I'm not gonna just sign off on that."

"Will do" was all she said before she left.

Alone Cuddy slowly sunk into her desk chair. She didn't allow herself a moment to take in how different things would be. She just got to work. She waded her way through the stack of messages and files left for her with efficiency, without stopping to think about anything other than what was in front of her.

Only when she was finished did she even consider the diagnostics department. And even then, she refused to look back. There needed to be a new head, she told herself. The why didn't matter.

Fifteen minutes later she was informing her choice of his promotion. "The department's yours," she said dispassionately. "You can keep who you want or fire them. Doesn't matter."

It was a good thing Chase was seated. He looked as though he were ready to faint. "You're giving it to me?" His voice squeaked as he tried to make sure that this wasn't a prank.

Cuddy wasn't in the mood to reassure him, no matter how sweetly boyish he looked. "Yes."

He shifted in the chair. "You're not –"

"House is gone." She refused to let herself feel anything when she said it.

Smartly he didn't question her on that point. "And Foreman?"

"He's a good doctor," she said with a nod. "But he's had several chances to prove that he's ready to lead a department. I'm not satisfied that he can. I'm also unsure why you're interested in my reasons."

Chase shrugged. "I'm just surprised is all. _Pleased_ but I wasn't expecting this."

"I don't have a patient for you yet, but you can take your team and see if you can find someone in the hospital."

She could see that this suggestion made him happy. The idea of having his own team, the fact that he was now in charge – those things hadn't been real for him until she had spoken to him like a department head. The change was undeniable for him then, and the smile on his face spoke to his open appreciation for the promotion.

"Thank you," he said almost sheepishly. "I won't disappoint –"

"I'll submit the paperwork to H.R. to make it official."

"Great." He stood up to leave but hesitated, didn't move. Cautiously he asked, "If I'm taking over, am I required to handle any unfinished business?" He must have realized how vague he sounded, because he sighed. Care abandoned, he put it more bluntly. "House was behind on submitting just about every kind of form there is."

"Don't worry about it."

His face screwed up in confusion. "I don't think that's possible. There are insurance –"

" _You_ don't have to worry about it," she interrupted. "I'll have someone come box House's personal belongings up, and when that happens, I'll take any files he still has squirreled away."

"You're okay with that?"

Chase was being sweet, but she didn't appreciate his kindness. After _everything_ , she could handle going through House's files. She was used to cleaning up his messes.

"I _am_. Go back to work."

Outwardly she was firm, undistracted by the complications House's choices had created. In that moment, Chase had no choice but to leave. And for the rest of the day, the façade seemed convincing. The more she played the part, the easier it was to believe that she was going to be fine – that she _was_ fine. After a while, her employees stopped looking at her as though she needed their pity. They could see she would not tolerate that.

But she took it a step too far.

_She_ started to believe her own act. Between denying pediatrics their request and treating patients, Cuddy began to feel immune to the actions of the previous week. Work gave her an outlet. Completely in control of the hospital, she found it easy to forget how powerless she really was. Eventually full of bravado, she made the choice to help the janitors clean House's desk. They would never recognize everything that needed to be saved and what should have been sent to his home. No matter how good of a job they did, there would still mix-ups. She told herself it would be easier this way.

But there was nothing simple about _this_.

Having waited until Chase and his team went home, Cuddy hesitated to enter the office. In front of it now, she wasn't sure she could go in. The room was dark. Even as the lights remained on, she thought it seemed so ominous.

The memories contained in that space had been warming at one point. But in light of House's actions, those past events left her cold. Every inch of that office had some fragment of an event etched into the fabric, into the paint, the glass. A desk they'd once shared, the white board she'd once used, the things they'd talked about, and the kisses they'd shared – there was no place to go in the room where she wouldn't be overwhelmed.

And yet she didn't have the option to leave. She had said she would help. As the janitorial staff came with cardboard boxes and large trash bins in hand, she knew she would have to go inside. Cuddy just hoped her reluctance didn't show, prayed that her voice didn't quiver when she explained, "We'll box all of his personal belongings and ship them to his home. Any medical files you find, anything that _looks_ like it might relate to patient care, need to be set aside for me to take. Books on the shelves all go. If you're not sure about an item belonging to him, we'll put it in the fellows' office for them to verify who owns the item. Understood?"

No one questioned her. No one tried to sympathize with her or cheer her up. Everyone was cordial but diligent, and getting the job done was all anyone cared about, Cuddy included. For the men cleaning with her, they just wanted to finish so they could focus on their normal duties. For her, the sooner this was done, the sooner she could leave his office.

Still she did her best to avoid House's personal belongings, sticking to the books he had on the shelves instead. It was safer to stick to the texts that could have belonged to anyone. It was less personal, less of a reminder of the man she knew… thought she knew.

She didn't question that she was making the right choice. House had tenure, but it wouldn't be hard to convince the board to fire him. And even if they resisted, once he was in prison, the choice would be made for them. They couldn't employ someone who would never have a medical license again. The only way all of this _possibly_ could be avoided was if she were to convince the police not to press charges, and even then she wasn't sure if that would work. She didn't want it to though. Logistics and legalities aside, House's behavior wasn't forgivable. She could defend and protect him from a lot of things, but this was too much. She didn't have any doubt about that.

Some part of her must have though. As she half-heartedly stuffed books into a box, as the cleaning crew sifted through the considerable contents of his desk, she wondered if this was truly the right thing.

_Of course_ it was. She knew that. She couldn't trust him with patients after what he had done to her. This was right, she reminded herself. But… it didn't feel right. None of it did. The janitors were placing trinkets, odds, and ends into a box next to her, and a glimpse of the rubber bands and toy figurines made Cuddy think for a moment that she _did_ know House. She knew the drawer he kept his glasses in, the way his fingers might nervously pluck at his oversized tennis ball or link together paper clips. She knew when he was listening to her and when he was merely pretending to, how his laugh sometimes got caught in a rare smile, the noise becoming raspy with air. The lines of his body, the scars, the warm fingertips that would gently stroke her while they were trying to sleep, the precise shade his eyes became when he realized something – all those parts of him had become a part of _her_. Surrounded by familiarity, she was reminded of how deep their connection was.

Had been.

She couldn't believe there was anything between them still. But memories of what they'd had gave her pause. They made her feel like she was betraying him. She _was_ , admittedly, in a way; she was turning her back on everything they had worked together to create. He had taken the first step away from her, but she was now running in the other direction as well. He had left her with nowhere else to go. She had no other option. In his office, his _former_ office though, she couldn't help but wish things had been different.

If only it weren't like this.

She didn't break under the weight of the thought. It might have been tempting, but the last thing she would allow was for her employees to see her upset. She'd crossed that line before with House. She'd let him into her personal life. She _wouldn't_ do that again.

When they'd finished sifting through everything in the office, Cuddy cordially thanked them and left without saying goodbye.

* * *

All considered, there were less incomplete files than she thought there would be. Four boxes in total, she had taken one with her and left the other three with the cleaning staff to drop off in her office. It would take her weeks, probably months, to get through it all, especially if there were complications, and there were sure to be several. But she didn't second-guess her choice to handle the paperwork as best she could herself. Ironically, doing House's job would stop her from thinking about him. At least, that was the plan.

When she returned to the hotel room, it was late. The room looked different now; thanks to all of the toys and stuffed animals Cuddy had pulled out of storage to mollify Rachel, the penthouse no longer looked like an expensive suit. But if it gave Rachel some comfort, Cuddy was willing to have a giant stuffed duck face down on the white sofa and a giraffe and rocking chair crammed in the corner by the balcony. Of course, Cuddy didn't know if it had helped. She hadn't talked to Marina after handing Rachel off, and there was the possibility that Rachel was no happier than she had been before. And now, Cuddy didn't have the opportunity to see how her daughter was doing. Both to her disappointment and relief, Rachel was already asleep.

"Thank you," Cuddy told Marina, when she finished reliving how Rachel had spent her afternoon. Rachel had calmed down apparently; a trip to the supermarket where she'd pet someone's golden retriever puppy had cheered her up. Cuddy hoped Rachel would stay that way.

She wanted to say more to Marina then – thank you for not asking questions, for being able to come in last minute, for giving Rachel the good time she wouldn't have had with her own mother. But all of those things would have made the conversation feel seedy, so Cuddy didn't elaborate any further. Within moments, Marina quietly slipped out of the hotel room.

As soon as she was gone, Cuddy glanced at the box of paperwork she'd placed at her feet the second she'd come into the room. Tired, she wasn't exactly in the mood to start going through the files House had left behind. But not tired enough, she knew what would happen if she tried to go to sleep now. She would lie in bed and think only of him. For the same reason, she wasn't going to watch television or try to read a book. A distraction would only be effective if it made her feel as though she were moving forward.

Settling into bed with a mug of tea in one hand and a file in the other, she knew this didn't look like progress. He was in jail, but she was still doing his work after all. That was a fact she couldn't fully reconcile much less deny. But this wasn't about protecting him. She was facilitating Chase's success as best she could – nothing more.

That motivation couldn't explain, however, why she felt ill at ease opening the folder up. That could only be because of _him_. It was the fear that behind the exterior of the file, something of his would appear, a signature, some writing, something that would remind her that he had once been more than the person who had ruined her home. It had nothing to do with Chase.

Of course, her concern was pointless. The second she glanced at the medical forms, all she saw was what looked to be Foreman's handwriting. Aside from a few places where House had been noted as the attending physician, there was no sign of him in the pages. Why that might have even been slightly surprising she didn't know. He had never cared about filling out the forms, documenting his work. Why would that change? She supposed it was because she now expected only the worst, the most devious behavior from him. Before it would have never seemed possible: that he would do his job properly so that in the event of something awful, she would be forced to confront a reminder of his existence. Now though, while Cuddy recognized how insane it sounded, she didn't doubt the depths to which he would stoop. He _had_ no limits. After all this time, House was nothing more than a bottomless pit of need and selfishness, callousness and horror. What everyone else had told her about him had been the truth. She'd seen usefulness, _goodness_ where there had been none. Whatever she'd thought she'd seen had been nothing more than her own desires mirrored in him. And knowing that, she wasn't sure if she could ever trust herself again.

Or anyone else.

Sighing, she recognized in that moment the faultiness of her plan. If she'd hoped for a distraction, this wasn't it. He still consumed her thoughts, and she could feel herself being pulled further and further into the darkness that he had left behind. Just as she didn't want Rachel to be affected, Cuddy wanted the same for herself. As much as her impulse was to cut herself off from everyone, she knew – or tried to tell herself she knew this anyway – that that wasn't going to help. Being alone was what she desired right now, but loneliness wasn't going to make her feel better. If she sacrificed every relationship she had or might have because of this, House would have precisely what he wanted.

He would have molded her into the same miserable and unloved and unloving person he had become.

Pushing the file and tea aside, she reached for her phone. It was late but not so much so that the people she needed to talk to were asleep. She had thought so anyway, but Wilson sounded groggy the second he answered her call.

"Hello?"

"Did I wake you?" Her voice sounded not entirely her own. She hadn't spoken much to Wilson much after the crash. Out of instinct, she'd tried to help him once she'd realized he was hurt. But they hadn't talked about it, not really. He'd gone to the hospital, and she had… focused on her own pain. Feeling as though she'd been incredibly selfish, she asked the question meekly. If he blamed her, the last thing she wanted was to upset him.

"Uhhh…" he said slowly, perhaps not wanting to tell her the truth. "I think you caught me just as I was about to."

She frowned. "I'm sorry. I can –"

"That would be pointless, given that I'm awake." He could have sounded angry easily. Beginning to feel just as insensitive as House, she would understand if Wilson hated her – and not just for this. Instead he seemed as friendly as he had always been.

That wasn't to say that the conversation didn't feel awkward. It did, at least to her. They had been friends for a long time, but what had held that friendship together? _House_. They had united under one goal, their discussions often about him, how to handle his latest bout of insanity. And while they had become closer with time, having lunch once a week even, House was the foundation of their relationship. Without him, it was difficult to tell what their friendship would be like. She didn't assume things would be the same. How could anything be the same?

While trying to keep that thought in mind, she cautiously asked him, "How are you feeling?"

"Doing better. Wrist's broken – I don't think we talked since –"

"No," she interrupted. "I meant to call you, but things have been –"

"You don't have to explain."

"No, I should. I'm sorry I –"

"Cuddy," he said firmly. "You don't have to apologize." He must have sensed that she didn't believe that, because he added, "I have a simple fracture, minimal pain. If you're wondering, my greatest complication is figuring out how to pull up my pants with one hand."

She laughed a little, and it felt good, odd.

"I'm fine. Pride's a little hurt, but I'm okay. I'm more worried about you," Wilson told her gently. It was his way of asking her how she was without trying to sound as though he were prying.

"I don't know what to tell you," she said with a sigh. "Things are so screwed up."

Then he was the one speaking out of a need to apologize. "If I'd known he was going to react like that, I would have _never_ let him near your house."

She wanted to laugh at the sentiment. If they had known House would become a monster, so much would be different.

Looking back, she could see the signs. He had shown his true self over the years. She'd ignored it, deluded herself into thinking that he was having a bad day. Now she couldn't believe he'd ever managed to convince her that he was a human being.

She didn't tell Wilson any of that. All she said to him was, "I know."

"At least he was arrested, right?"

If he were trying to sound pleased by that fact, he didn't exactly succeed. And if she were supposed to feel relieved by it, she failed just as much as he did. "We should talk about that," she said eventually.

"I thought we were talking."

"I mean in person."

There was a long pause before he asked, "You're not dropping the charges, are you?"

"No."

"… Okay. Want me to come over now – where _are_ you exactly?"

She named the hotel but rejected his suggestion of coming over tonight. "It's late. I think I'm still on Fiji time, so –"

"You were in Fiji?" She didn't get a chance to answer, because Wilson was already realizing what that meant. " _House_ was arrested on a plane that came from – did he follow you to –"

"No. No, I don't know. Maybe. Rachel found him, and –"

"You _talked_ to him?" Wilson was shocked.

She wanted to say more specifically that they'd sat next to each other on the plane ride back. But that would only invite more questions. And while she'd been willing to call to make sure their friendship was okay, now that she knew it was, she didn't have it in her to go over what exactly had happened the last few days.

"Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

She couldn't see his disappointment, but she could sense it. "Yeah. Okay. If that's what you want."

"I'll put Rachel down early, and then you can come over." As if she'd heard her name, Rachel appeared in the doorway at that moment. Cuddy, instantly seeing her, motioned for her to come close.

"All right. How about I bring some wine?"

"That'd be great. But now I have to go. _Someone_ ," she said as she pulled Rachel up onto the bed. "Woke up."

"I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Night, Wilson." The second she hung up the phone, she turned her attention to Rachel. "Why are you awake?" she asked quietly.

Rachel tiredly rubbed her eyes and buried her face into Cuddy's chest. Mumbling she said, "I wanna go home."

Cuddy didn't say anything right away. As hard as it was to hear that Rachel wanted to be in her home, Cuddy was relieved in a way. Up to this point, Rachel had mainly relied on screaming and crying. This was the first time she started off with vocalizing what was wrong. That didn't make anything _better_ ; Rachel was still upset and would continue to be until Cuddy did something. But since Rachel had found the words to express what was wrong, Cuddy didn't want to undermine the importance of that by instantly soothing her daughter.

Quietly, she set her phone on the nightstand. Distractions aside, she finally said to Rachel, "I know you do. I miss it too."

Rachel looked up at her almost hopefully. "Go home?"

"I know you want to," Cuddy said compassionately. "But that's not our home anymore. We're going to have a new home."

Rachel clearly didn't understand that. Her lower lip trembled, as she confessed, "I don't like it here."

"This isn't where we're going to live, honey. This is only for a little bit. We're just staying here until we can move into our new home."

The point, again, was lost on Rachel. Time itself was something she didn't have a strong grasp of. She could understand "wait" when Cuddy was making her breakfast or having a hard time puncturing a juice box with a straw. Rachel knew her schedule by virtue of the fact that it _was_ her schedule. But anything beyond the normal was confusing to her. Staying in the hotel for "a little bit" wasn't something she could comprehend. That something might exist after this didn't dawn on her.

The fact that all of this was sudden and unplanned only made it worse. If Rachel had known this was coming, maybe it would have been easier. If they hadn't gone to Fiji, if she hadn't seen House, if Cuddy had had a house lined up to move into… this wouldn't be nearly as hard as it was proving to be. All of those things had happened though.

The only thing she could do now was try to make the rest of this transition as easy as possible. Or if not easy, then it had to be _quick_ , so that Rachel wasn't in a prolonged period of adjustment. Even though it didn't make sense financially to buy a house in urgency, Cuddy would rather pay more than get a good bargain and watch Rachel suffer.

"I know this is hard," Cuddy said, understanding that the words weren't going to help. "But we'll be in our new home soon, and it'll be okay. You'll have a new room and… a big backyard…."

The palpable need for the words to be convincing made them less so.

Cuddy tried again. "How about we go sit in your chair, okay? Would you like that?" Predictably the answer was a yes that came in the form of a nod. "All right. Let Mommy grab a blankie to keep you warm. Stay here," she ordered softly as she climbed out of bed.

She headed to the bathroom to get the fluffy white bathrobe that hung behind the door. It was probably cleaner than the decorative throw in the penthouse and certainly softer. But she'd no sooner grabbed it than tiny arms suddenly wrapped around her legs. Rachel had always liked to stick close to her, so it wasn't too surprising that she'd followed Cuddy into the bathroom. And yet Rachel was _clinging_ to her, as though she were afraid her mother was going to disappear completely if she let go.

Need roiled from her. Not even when Rachel had been a plump little baby, pink from crying, had she been this desperate. The feeling wasn't unexpected, given her behavior since seeing House on the plane. But the ferocity of the emotion took Cuddy by surprise. Of all the ramifications for House's behavior, the way it was affecting Rachel wasn't one she'd expected. Cuddy had known her daughter liked him. She knew that she missed her friend. She didn't know _this_ would happen.

Cuddy tried her best to squat down with Rachel's arms wrapped around her. "Come here. Let's get you bundled up."

"Like a baby."

She smiled. "Uh huh. My little baby." She swaddled Rachel in the bathrobe like it was a blanket, like Rachel was still the tiny infant Cuddy had once brought home. When Rachel was snug in the robe, Cuddy picked her up. After grunting with effort, she said, "You're getting so big. Let's go sit in your rocking chair."

When they'd finally settled into the chair in the living room, it almost felt normal. Rachel slowly fell asleep in her arms, as she had many times before. The lights of the city and the moon filtered in through the balcony, which cast the room in peaceful shadows. Everything from the familiar cushions beneath her to her daughter's warmth should have relaxed Cuddy just as effectively as it had Rachel.

Instead, the act soured Cuddy's mood. The last time she'd placed Rachel in her bathrobe and held her like this, House had been there. Rachel had contracted some sort of stomach virus from the park, and she'd thrown up on the blanket that hung on the back of the rocking chair. Taking off her bathrobe, Cuddy had preferred to use that than waste time fetching a new throw. Unlike tonight, Rachel had taken her time falling asleep. Getting sick had made her upset and uncomfortable, and she'd spent a good half hour wriggling and complaining.

And through it all, House had been there.

He'd woken up at some point and joined them, taking up on the little couch in the nursery. Cuddy had told him repeatedly to go back to bed, as there had been nothing he could do to help. But, in a moment of kindness, perhaps knowing that she would be grateful later, he had stayed by her side. He'd waited until Rachel had fallen asleep, and then he'd helped unravel the robe from around her tiny body. Without being asked, he had transformed himself into someone Cuddy could depend on. He had become her partner.

She had no one now.

It was a fact that stayed with her throughout the next day. She was alone. Employees wanted her to sign off on procedures, hire new staff members, call other hospitals to personally request sealed medical records – they wanted her help; they did not want to offer her their own.

What should have been a simple phone call to her mother yielded similar results. Cuddy had only planned to spend five minutes of her lunch checking in with her mother, but the second Arlene had answered the phone, it was clear this wasn't going to end quickly.

"Hi, Mom. I wanted to –"

"Have you talked to your sister?" There was nothing conversational about it. Her direct tone always made it difficult to tell when she was irritated, but this time, her displeasure was obvious.

Fighting the urge to hang up the phone, Cuddy explained, "I planned on calling her after talking to you. I haven't had a chance to –"

"Then I would find one" was her tart reply.

"Has something –"

"You're too smart to be this ignorant, Lisa. She's angry."

"With me." She was dumbfounded by the concept. "Because I _asked_ House to drive his car through my home and nearly kill us all, or am I missing something?"

"Just call her." But her mother was quick to change tactics at that moment, perhaps sensing that being this direct wasn't going to work. "To be honest, it _might_ be my fault. She's upset that you left the country after all this… _business_."

Cuddy scoffed. "Might be your fault? Mom, you were the one who –"

"I am aware of that – and before you bite my head off, I _did_ tell her that it was my suggestion that made you leave," she said quickly. "But in the last week, your sister has become… _emotional_. I can only comfort her so much before the tediousness takes its toll on me, and my fear is that when she knows what I know, she will be unwilling to talk to you."

Cuddy didn't understand. Tongue lightly touching the soft flesh of her cheek, she tried to figure out what her mother meant. But she couldn't. "What do you mean, when she knows what –"

"The detective who arrested Julia called to tell her that House had been arrested at the airport. He'd been on a plane coming from Australia. Now I don't expect Julia to know that to get to Fiji one has to fly through the country, but I _know_ , which is why I am pretty sure that _you_ spent time with –"

"You think I invited –"

"No. Terrible as your taste in men remains, it has never given me any reason to suspect that you've sacrificed your mind to your libido."

"Thanks," Cuddy said sarcastically.

"Just smooth it over with her. You can be diplomatic, I'm sure."

"Fine. I'll take care of it."

It didn't matter what they talked about after that. Even as Cuddy recalled to her mother what had happened in Fiji, her mind stayed on this developing issue with her sister.

She didn't doubt that her mother was right, that there _was_ a problem. Rationally Cuddy could understand why Julia had apparently taken offense. This accident had happened, and then Cuddy had gone on vacation. For someone who could have died or witnessed her husband or sister die, that was too much for her.

However, Cuddy had a hard time mustering the sympathy necessary to make things right. Julia had met House, but she hadn't loved him. She had faced the possibility of tragedy, but she wasn't _living_ through one. She knew the fear House had caused. She couldn't possibly understand what it was like to have that terror committed by the last person to come inside her.

The last person to say, "I love you" to her and mean it.

Julia couldn't begin to comprehend _that_.

And Cuddy didn't know how to explain that to her sister, so she wouldn't. She would apologize. She would give her sister what she needed to hear, knowing full well that Julia would never be able to return the comfort. It was what had to be done to quell this issue.

But it wouldn't be done today – though that wasn't by choice. When Cuddy tried to call her, Julia didn't answer her phone. Then again, maybe it was by choice, because Cuddy knew she was being extremely quick to give up when she hung up and didn't try to call back after the first attempt. As important as it was to make things better, she didn't feel any urgency.

If anything, she felt incredible reluctance to do anything. Problem solving was a skill she had in spades, but this was one time she had no desire to fix things. Admittedly it was beyond childish. She knew how her behavior could be perceived, understood how it sounded when she asked herself if it was truly that wrong to have someone – _anyone_ – care about how she was doing.

There was nothing mature about it. As much as she would like to say that she could move forward with aplomb, this was proof that she couldn't. She wasn't going to. All she wanted was to be free from House's actions, for her sanity, for Rachel's well being. But it seemed like there was no escaping it. Every relationship seemed tainted by what he'd done. Everywhere Cuddy turned, there was another reminder, another complication. Her world seemed to be closing in on her, suffocating her with condemnation for having dared to love a man as screwed up as House. And there was nothing particularly graceful about just wanting it to _end_ , but she didn't care about that.

She just wanted… _freedom_ , she thought with frustration. With dozens of strangers and even more employees right outside her office doors however, she knew she wouldn't get it here.

As if to shield herself from the people surrounding her, she turned her chair to face the window behind her desk. She looked out at the scenery unseeing. Whatever salvation she was hoping the familiar sight would provide her never appeared. But why would it, she asked herself bitterly.

Sighing, she turned back around. She scooted herself closer to her desk; prepared to get back to work, she looked to her computer screen… and immediately reconsidered what she was doing. She couldn't concentrate, didn't want to. And then it didn't matter how beneficial it would be for her to complete the task at hand. She simply couldn't.

Reaching for her phone, she quickly dialed Wilson's number. "Are you busy?" she asked in a rush the second he answered.

"No," he answered slowly, curious. "Are you okay?"

"Can I come over?"

"Sure. I've just been catching up on –"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes." Without saying goodbye, she hung up the phone.

Gathering her things, Cuddy didn't care about the curt ending. Nor did she feel bad when she left, leaving Regina the unenviable task of canceling all of the meetings Cuddy had asked her to schedule for today. Julia's anger left Cuddy overwhelmed, and she couldn't pretend like that wasn't happening. If she tried, she knew the work wouldn't be good, and Cuddy had no intention of becoming incompetent.

By the time she reached Wilson's doorstep, she realized that she would be seen as inept either way. She wasn't doing her job today. She hadn't been doing her job by keeping House employed for as long as she had. She was an idiot, and when the board met with her next week, it wouldn't be about firing House as much as it would about firing _her_.

The thought making her feel sick, it was one she couldn't suppress when Wilson answered the door. He knew something was wrong the second he saw her. "What's wrong?"

"What isn't wrong?" She sounded more frustrated and irritated than sad, which she liked. Tears seemed inevitable, but crying was the last thing she wanted to do, especially in front of him.

Despite appearances though, he must have sensed how upset she really was. Not that she was ever capable of hiding the way this made her feel well, but he was quick to be comforting.

"Why don't you come inside and sit down?" He stepped out of the doorframe and led her inside with a gentle hand on her back. In the past he wouldn't have been so overt with his need to care for her. Leading her like a child to his couch would have never happened before. But then, she would have never accepted that type of sympathy from him. Now she drank in the kindness he was offering, allowing him to guide her onto the sofa cushions, appreciating the small distance between them when he sat down next to her.

His hand on her knee, he asked, "What happened?"

She told him without hesitation: going to Fiji, seeing House, watching him be arrested on the plane, dealing with Rachel's behavior – all of it. He sat patiently throughout, listening but refraining from asking too many questions or offering a lot of input. She was grateful for that. It was exhausting to relive. Every time she moved on to the next act of horror, she thought to herself how unbelievable it really was. It was unnatural to go through so much in such a short period of time. It should have been anyway. But it wasn't.

"I don't know what to do," she confessed when she'd finished catching him up on everything.

"Rachel's young. She'll get over it." It could have been blunt, but his voice never allowed the words to approach forceful. "She's a little girl who doesn't understand what's going on. Of course, she's upset. But kids that age are adaptable. Once you're out of the hotel and she has a chance to settle into a new routine, she'll be all right."

Cuddy wasn't sure about that. She wanted to believe that that would be the case but...

"She's feeding off of you," he pointed out lightly. "She's upset because she knows you are."

There was no point in disagreeing with Wilson. On that count, he was probably right. Rachel had been okay with Marina yesterday, and without any phone calls today, Cuddy could only believe that the same was true now. Rachel was fine. When away from her mother, she wasn't crying.

"I guess," she said after a moment. "That doesn't exactly make me feel better."

"I didn't think it would," he said with a small smile. "But at least it means if you take better care of yourself, she'll be happier." He knew what her criticism would be, that he was making it sound easy, and added immediately, the sarcasm obvious, "So get over it, Cuddy."

She laughed. "You're right. Why didn't I think of that?"

The joke couldn't continue. As amusing as it was, they both knew that getting over House was anything but simple. And to laugh about that fact was partly enjoyable but mostly depressing in the end.

"We'll be okay," Wilson said after a long silence.

She wanted to believe that. She wasn't sure she did. "Will we?"

His head came closer to hers, so that she could see the conviction in his eyes plainly. "House needed us. We didn't need him."

Her voice was low. "I wished it felt like that." She didn't like saying it out loud, didn't like that it was true.

"I know, but you know I'm right. You're intelligent, funny, beautiful, _kind_ – and House is what? The ass who took advantage of that."

It couldn't be described as a compliment. Wilson's delivery was too flat for the words to be intended as flattery. But that in a way made it even nicer. He wasn't saying those things for the sole purpose of making her feel better; he was saying them, because in his mind, they were basic facts.

She turned her head away so that she could smile widely without him seeing. His act of kindness was deeply appreciated, especially after the week she'd had. But she was cautious to let him see the feeling cross her face. An audience would confirm that she was taking pleasure in his comments. And normally that wouldn't be a problem, but when happiness was as sparse as it had been lately, she didn't feel like sharing the moment with anyone else – not even the source of that joy.

Knowing that he would want something from her, she eventually turned back to thank him.

His mouth met hers instead.

She didn't get it at first. It took her several long seconds to understand what was going on. The improbability of Wilson kissing her made realization slow to come. But when she did recognize what he was doing, she didn't pull away. She started kissing him back.

It wasn't that she enjoyed the kiss. At that point she didn't. But with his lips against hers, she was curious enough to see if her feelings would change. After all, she could do worse than Wilson, one of the few people she knew she could trust and probably the only person who could understand what House's actions meant. The kiss didn't initially strike her as something she wanted, but maybe if she reciprocated, her feelings would change.

They didn't.

Even as she kissed back, her mouth twisted into a grimace. And she could feel the repulsion being reciprocated, because his lips had stopped moving.

Abruptly they pulled apart.

"No," he said loudly, though not really to her. "No, that was not a –"

"Good idea. Agreed." She emphatically nodded her head.

"I thought if we…." His finger gestured between them, which only called attention to how close they were. Quickly they were sliding to opposite ends of the couch.

"It would make sense," she offered. "We're friends."

"But not like _that_. Not at _all._ " The way he spoke, the idea was clearly horrifying to him. He must have appreciated how that might come off, because he clarified for her, "Not that you're a bad kisser."

"I know I'm not."

"It's just…."

"Not right."

"Exactly."

It could have been a blow to their friendship, even to their self-esteem. The lack of chemistry was blatant, and the way they were both making that known could have been upsetting easily. Given how fragile things were now, thanks to House, this mistake could have quickly hurt them both. But it didn't. Somehow kissing Wilson (and realizing how _stupid_ it was to ever think there could be something there) had become the highlight of her life after House.

That that might be true was ridiculous, but she didn't care too much about that. Between the mistake itself and the face Wilson was now making, their behavior seemed amusingly screwed up.

This time when she started laughing, he joined in, and they didn't stop until they were both breathless.

* * *

Over the next two days, when reality became too much for her, she chose to remember the kiss to renew her spirits. It was bizarre that something so _wrong_ could provide any sort of joy. But of all the things to go wrong, a make out session with Wilson was silly when compared to everything else. And if it helped her, she wasn't going to second guess why that was. She would just cling to it for what little comfort the moment could provide.

Three days after that disaster though, it stopped being effective. Because on this particular morning, when Cuddy came into work, she was met by someone she never expected to see.

Standing outside of her office was House's _wife_.

Then it didn't matter how Cuddy had chosen to cope. Nothing was going to make her feel good about this. As she took a step towards Dominika, Cuddy couldn't help but wonder – _again_ – just how much she was expected to take before it would end.

Before House would stop hurting her.

_To be continued_


	5. Change Your Mind

_"True passion is not a wisp-light – it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the heart in which it has been enkindled to dust and ashes." – William Winter_

Cuddy headed toward the woman House had paraded around as his wife. There was no hesitation in Cuddy's footsteps. The walk seemed to take minutes, though that wasn't physically possible, but she didn't consider what she was doing. The other woman's presence would create enough gossip as it was; if there was any reluctance on Cuddy's part, that would only increase the drama. And she had no desire to fulfill anyone's wish to watch a soap opera at work. No matter how similar an episode might have seemed when compared to her life in its current state, she wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of an emotional reaction.

Her employees anticipated it though. Regina blocked her from approaching Dominika, asking, "Want me to call security?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Nothing's going to happen." Regina looked at her doubtfully. "It'll be fine."

It _would_ be. Cuddy's initial reaction had been the same sickening feeling she'd had in her stomach when House had destroyed her home, but that was gone now. Seeing how other people were responding to Dominika, Cuddy no longer felt unhappy.

Did she _want_ to talk to House's green card wife? Of course not. There would never be a time when Cuddy had any sort of friendship with this woman, so much so that basic conversation was undesirable. But what could Dominika say or do to her now? Everyone around them was acting as though a fight would break out or something awful would happen. Cuddy had thought similarly at first. Yet when faced with others feeling the same way, she could see how _stupid_ that was. House had already taken this dynamic as far as it could go; there was nothing his _wife_ could do to make it any worse.

Having found some dregs of wherewithal, Cuddy didn't have to fake the confident, even tone in her voice. "Can I help you?"

In contrast, Dominika looked nervous, scared even. She was wearing a light blue dress with a high neck and short chiffon sleeves that, coupled with the pony tail she had her hair in, made her seem sweet, innocent, conservative. Her make up was light, shoes heelless, and in her hands was some sort of cake or bread wrapped in cellophane. Looking at her, Cuddy could tell she had put considerable effort into her appearance; she didn't want to be perceived as anything other than an unthreatening presence.

Cuddy wouldn't claim she knew the kind of person Dominika was. They were strangers to one another, in each other's life only because of _him_. She wouldn't say she knew who Dominika was. But the image presented was one Cuddy fundamentally rejected. It was too obvious, and anyone trying to be that convincing would fall short on principle.

Perhaps sensing Cuddy's ambivalence, Dominika asked nervously, "We can discuss this alone?"

"Sure." Cuddy opened the door to her office and gestured for Dominika to step inside. "Take a seat," she said, as she walked and sat behind her desk. Dominika hesitated but conceded, sitting across from her. "What can I do for you?"

Dominika tentatively slid the cellophane-wrapped food onto the desk. "This is _yabluchnyk_ for you. It is…." She paused as though trying to decide how to describe the item. "Cake with apple."

"That's kind of you." Cuddy couldn't quite force herself to thank the person her ex-boyfriend had married. "But I don't think you came here to give me a cake."

"No, it's not. I have not heard from House in… long time. I try calling. There's no answer. And then today, I find box on steps for him from the hospital." She seemed embarrassed to say the words, but she asked the question anyway. "Can you tell me what is happening?"

Cuddy took, by her own admission, sick pleasure in the turn the conversation had taken. _Clearly_ House's marriage hadn't been real for either husband or wife; Cuddy had known that the second the engagement had been announced. At no point during his parade around the hospital had Cuddy even considered that he was happy with this stranger.

She hadn't been fooled – by _that_ anyway.

But at the same time, it was easy to think or worry that House might after a certain point enjoy his _roommate's_ company. He tended to get attached to people who were _around_ and not necessarily because he liked them. And with Dominika, why wouldn't he come to like her? Any woman who would agree to marry him was surely a prostitute, no matter what job House claimed she had. Why wouldn't he take advantage of that, insist on it? Why wouldn't they come to some sort of understanding and develop some sort of seedy friendship because of it?

Suddenly there was no longer any pleasure to be had in Dominika's ignorance. Cuddy's own just left her feeling ill. Because in thinking about that particular betrayal, she could see how… terribly expected a car in her living room really was. If he'd been willing to _marry_ someone so soon after their break up, why wouldn't he do other things to hurt her? When she'd refused to give him the declaration of love or open emotional reaction that he wanted, why wouldn't he escalate the situation?

Of course, he would do that. Without firm limits, he did whatever he wanted.

"He's in jail," Cuddy said simply, forcing herself to focus on the conversation at hand. "Awaiting trial for several charges."

That wasn't the answer Dominika was expecting. Cuddy didn't know what she thought had happened, but apparently, prison wasn't it.

"I… oh," Dominika uttered, eyes wide with surprise. She sat back in the chair and fell silent for at least a minute. "But he comes home soon, yes?"

Cuddy thought that if she had anything to say about it, he wouldn't be home for a long time. What she said, however, was, "I don't know."

That news seemed particularly hard for Dominika to digest. Looking as though she were going to choke, she forced herself to swallow hard. "But immigration," she said in distress. "If he is not home, what – I don't understand what this means. How am I to become citizen?"

Instinct told Cuddy to repeat herself, to say that she had no idea what Dominika was supposed to do. But Cuddy couldn't do it. She felt too much pity for the woman before her.

Again, she considered what it would take to marry a complete stranger – and not just a complete stranger at that but _House_. Prostitute or not, Dominika would have had to have had no other options. There couldn't have been a boyfriend willing to marry her and see what would happen, a friend who would help out with this illegal union. She'd married _House_ , and again, it was hard to believe that sex hadn't entered the equation from the start. If he'd agreed, surely, there'd been an understanding or the implication that they would have sex at some point. Since he hadn't gotten the reaction he'd wanted by getting married, he would need to find some enjoyment in this agreement. Cuddy didn't think she was being too harsh in assuming that what he got was someone to cook and clean for him and satisfy him sexually. And the woman who would be okay with that? Well, she was in need of many things, but Cuddy's derision was probably not one of them.

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said earnestly. "I don't know. You would have to talk to someone about that."

"Right." Dominika looked down, and Cuddy dreaded the possibility that she would cry. Cuddy could feel bad for her; she couldn't comfort anyone right now. But Dominika didn't cry. Though she seemed on the verge, she kept her composure long enough to say, "Thank you. I should go."

Awkwardly she stood up and left, hands shaking as she pulled the door and open and shut behind her. As quickly as she'd come, she was gone. Cuddy wanted to say something to her, but she let Dominika go without a word.

There was nothing to say, not really. Cuddy had no idea how any of this would work out for the other woman, and she could not promise that everything would be all right. Possibly, she had the power to make House's problem go away by refusing to cooperate with the police. But how could Cuddy do that? She pitied Dominika, but how could she ever forgive House for what he'd done? Whatever sympathy she had for her, it wasn't enough to make Cuddy feel comfortable in letting House get away with his crimes. And since that was the only way she could even begin to help Dominika, Cuddy knew there was nothing she could do. They were both suffering at the hands of House, and only one of them could get what they deserved. It was awful to know that Dominika would be punished for House's choices, but then Cuddy supposed that was the price she'd agreed to pay when she'd said, "I do."

That thought in mind, Cuddy just sat there and watched Dominika leave.

Their meeting was not as quick to dismiss. If anything, Cuddy kept going back to it throughout the rest of the week. In theory it was easy to ignore the impact all of this would have on everyone else. Between the ramifications for herself and the way Rachel was behaving, Cuddy shouldn't have had the capacity to worry about anyone else. But, and maybe this was a way to distract herself, she did wonder what Dominika was going through.

Cuddy wasn't sure what the point of that was. She wasn't going to change her mind about House. There was nothing to be done about it. And no matter how desperate Dominika might have been, in the end, she had made a choice to marry someone as screwed up as House. Whatever happened with her immigration… it was probably unavoidable anyway. How much had House really learned or cared to learn about his wife? At least being in jail would provide a reason for how little House and Dominika knew one another.

It was always at that point in the thought process that Cuddy remembered: she didn't really care. There was nothing she could do, nothing she wanted to do, and it was best, she told herself, to forget about the matter all together. Inevitably though her mind would return to the subject. It was easier than thinking about what House had done, how Rachel had been affected, how Cuddy herself was being affected, how her sister wasn't returning her phone calls. But then why wouldn't it be easier? There was no emotional connection there. Everything else was harder, because Cuddy loved or had loved the people involved. And she was avoiding those problems, she realized, by thinking about House's wife.

But of course, the issues she was avoiding were the ones that needed resolution. Julia was furious apparently, and the longer they didn't talk, the more Cuddy understood that things would never be the same between them again. And if she wanted a relationship with her sister that was even remotely close, she would have to get a hold of her soon.

Yet Julia was of little concern when compared to Rachel. Needless to say, Rachel was getting worse – more likely to cry over tiny slights and even quicker to anger. She no longer asked for House or even said his name. Cuddy wanted to believe that was a good sign, but everything else was worse. Rachel was starting to act out around Marina, and every day when Cuddy went to leave for work, Rachel would cling to her, cry, and in one case even wet herself. Fixing _that_ had to come first.

To say Cuddy had no idea how was… an understatement. Well, that wasn't exactly true. There was an obvious solution to making Rachel the happy child she used to be: give her House.

Wilson had said that Rachel was only mirroring the behavior she was getting from Cuddy herself. But Cuddy didn't think that was true. Maybe it was in part, but Rachel was now no longer happy when away from her mother. Something deeper was upsetting her. Something beyond seeing her mother sad was creating this clingy, distraught child. In Cuddy's estimation, that something could have been only been House for as odd as it was that he could ever connect to a child, there seemed to be no other explanation. Simply put, Rachel had grown accustomed to the strange presence in her home. She had come to accept him as a daily part of her life. And seeing him being taken away by the police was more than she could handle. That wasn't what Cuddy wanted or what she'd expected when she'd broken up with House, but there it was. Regardless of how likelihood, Rachel and House had bonded.

For that reason, it seemed natural that the solution would be to let House out of jail, to let Rachel spend time with him. At least, that would have been the _simple_ solution.

However, there was nothing simple about letting House back into their lives. There was nothing possible about it. Even if it was best for Rachel, Cuddy couldn't do it. Again, it seemed like the fate of a person in her hands, the power to help her entirely related to Cuddy forgiving House. But that wasn't going to happen.

That would _never_ happen.

Because although it might make Rachel happy temporarily, at some point, she would learn of the truth. She would grow older and read a newspaper. House would mistakenly tell her, because he thought she should know. Arlene or Julia would get drunk one night and reveal that information. Some day, Rachel would know what House had done. And if Cuddy had let him continue be a part of their lives after _that_ , what would that teach her daughter? What would that say?

No, that wasn't ever going to be an option – no matter how beneficial it might have seemed.

So that just left Cuddy with... what exactly? From where she stood, there seemed to be no easy fix to the problem if House was removed from the equation. Cuddy considered having Rachel see a therapist, but she wasn't sure that would make anything better. Rachel was so young; how could she even begin to process what would happen? She really couldn't, and therapy wouldn't necessarily help because of that. And beyond therapy, Cuddy didn't have many ideas.

She would get a new house immediately, of course. That was decided the second they'd moved into the hotel. It seemed contradictory. To put her daughter through the stress of a move when she was already going through enough seemed like a dumb idea. But Cuddy felt that it would be harder for Rachel to find some semblance of normalcy in the hotel room and then be forced to move. Better to get through the extra upheaval now, when Rachel didn't really like the hotel or want to be there, than let her get used to the place, Cuddy thought.

In the back of her mind, Cuddy understood that it might seem like she was rushing this decision, and maybe she was. Maybe she wanted the house so that she could say she had made some progress in helping her daughter. But she was willing to accept accusations of being motivated by selfishness. After all she'd been through, she didn't exactly care how it looked.

Because of that, she had no problem inviting Wilson to join her house hunting that Saturday.

Rachel, on the other hand, _did_.

That morning, Cuddy was busy getting ready, pretending not to be consumed with things she needed to do, problems she needed to fix. Admittedly however, she was, and lost in thought, she didn't even realize that there'd been a knock at the door until she heard Rachel yelling.

Concerned, Cuddy immediately darted out into the hallway and towards the door to the hotel room.

When she caught sight of Rachel, Rachel was trying to close the door on someone's hand, Wilson's hand. "Go 'way, Moose," Rachel said through gritted teeth, as she strained to shut Wilson out.

Wilson's response was muffled by the thick door, but Cuddy could just make out: "No, don't do that, sweetie. Your mommy asked me to –"

"Rachel!" Cuddy said sternly. Instantly her daughter let go of the door and turned, a look of innocence plastered on her face. As Wilson slipped inside, Cuddy admonished Rachel. "What have I told you about opening the door when Mommy's not around?" Rachel didn't say anything, guilt overwhelming her. "You know better than that, _and_ you know better than to be mean to Dr. Wilson. He's my friend."

Wilson, who seemed embarrassed at having elicited the reaction he did, interjected bashfully, "It's okay. You don't need to worry about it."

Cuddy shook her head. "No, it's not. I'm sorry about that." As she went to give Wilson a kiss on the cheek to greet him, she explained, "Please don't take it personally. She's been... a handful recently."

"It's... fine." Wilson awkwardly accepted the warm the greeting. Cuddy wasn't surprised by that. Things had been a little uncomfortable since their kiss. She wasn't sure if he was ashamed to have crossed that line or to have done so without any real attraction to her. She didn't ask him and pretended she didn't notice his discomfort.

When she turned around though, she understood that Wilson's problem had nothing to do with the kiss and _everything_ to do with the little girl _glaring_ at him.

"Stop that," Cuddy told her. "Be nice."

It didn't work, which led to Wilson asking, "I take it she's staying with a babysitter?" It was hardly subtle, but she didn't take offense.

"No, she's coming with us. Ever since _you know_ , she's been wanting to stick close to Mommy. Isn't that right?" she asked Rachel as she scooped her up into her arms. Rachel just sucked her thumb, big blue eyes staring at Wilson in a way that made him shift on his feet. "Just let me get my purse and we can go."

Cuddy carried Rachel with her to the living room, as she didn't trust her to behave alone with Wilson. Validating that concern, Rachel said as soon as they were out of earshot, "I don't like him."

"You don't have to like him," Cuddy said as she scoured the room for where she'd left her purse. "But he is my friend, so you have to be nice to him."

"No."

Spotting her purse stuffed behind a sofa cushion, Cuddy reached down with Rachel in her arms to grab it. "It's not optional, Rachel. Be nice to him."

Thumb still jammed into her mouth, Rachel whined around it, "I want House."

It hurt, but the confession didn't surprise Cuddy in the least. Her daughter missed House. Even if she didn't say it all the time, she did. And without any understanding of what constituted a romantic relationship, she looked at Wilson's presence as…. an attempt to replace House.

Cuddy sighed. "I know you do. I really do. But House can't come over right now. Okay?" She kissed Rachel's forehead. "Wilson's not replacing him. He's just helping Mommy today, all right?" Rachel didn't say anything, a sure sign that she wasn't convinced. Cuddy could only assume then that there would be no getting through to her, and so she took advantage of Rachel's silence and kissed her again. "Come on. Let's go pick out our new home."

When they were in front of Wilson once more, he offered, "I can leave if –"

"Don't be ridiculous. She'll calm down, and I'd like your input."

"Well, if you're sure…."

"I am." As they left the hotel room, she added, "Besides, I'd like you to meet my realtor. You want to press the button?" Cuddy asked Rachel when they'd reached the elevator. She shook her head, so Cuddy did it.

Wilson stood next to her, confused. "I like my apartment though, so –"

"That's not why you should meet her," she said with a smile.

His fingers uneasily picked at the cast on his other arm. "You're setting me up?" He visibly didn't like the idea. "I don't think I should try to date anyone right now. And I don't know why you'd even want to –"

"You _know_ why."

She didn't go into detail, the implication obvious. After Rachel's behavior, Cuddy wasn't going to explicitly state that she had kissed Wilson. But between the two of them, the reason was obvious.

It was one that made Wilson blush. "That was a mistake – a horrible mistake. Do we really need to discuss this? I thought we were okay."

"I'm not angry," Cuddy reassured as they stepped onto the elevator. "We're both… trying to adjust. I want sympathy. You want someone to funnel all your concern into."

Wilson looked as though he regretted being trapped in the elevator with her. "Please don't tell me you buy into this idea that I like needy –"

"I don't know what I believe anymore, Wilson," she said casually. "But she's in her thirties, pretty, and widowed three years ago. If you like her, take advantage of that. If you don't, please pretend you do so I can look at these homes without her constant input."

He wagged a finger at her. "And there it is: the true reason for your attempts at matchmaking," he said in a purposely overdramatic manner.

She smiled. "That might be the main reason, I admit. But the other things I said are –"

"You don't have to worry about that," he said seriously. "It was a mistake, and I shouldn't have ever tried to…." His gaze shifting to Rachel who was still giving him a disgusted look, he stopped himself from saying he'd kissed her mother. "Do _that_."

"Good. Because I don't want to poison our friendship with your libido."

He held his hands up in capitulation. "Believe me. I'm hands off. And if I ever thought about reconsidering, you've got your little _thug_ to keep you safe."

Cuddy groaned though her heart wasn't into it. "Oh, Rachel." Squeezing her daughter close, she encouraged, "How about you smile?"

"No!"

"Think of it this way," she said to Wilson. "You've finally met a girl you can't charm."

As the elevator door opened, he joked, "Is that supposed to refer to you or to her?"

She didn't answer. She just said, "I'll drive." Thankfully he didn't push the matter.

Then again, she hadn't expected him to. He didn't want to relive their kiss any more than she did. It had been a mistake, which should have made repetition completely avoidable. Cuddy just wanted to make sure that it definitely would be. Again, that should have been a given. They needed each other's friendship, not their affection. But as the last week had demonstrated, what Cuddy needed wasn't to be given automatically.

She needed a daughter who was unaffected. She didn't get that. She needed a sister who called _her_ and asked how _she_ was doing, having just nearly been killed by her ex-boyfriend. That didn't happen. She needed the woman her ex had married to not exist. Clearly, that wasn't possible. And now Cuddy needed a new home that met the most minimal of criteria, and that too seemed difficult.

As she distastefully surveyed the first property, Cuddy told herself that she had made the right choice setting limits with Wilson. She didn't need ambivalence right now.

The second and third homes were equally unsatisfactory, too many repairs needed in the case of the former, a pool Cuddy had no interest in maintaining in the latter. Wilson did his best to keep Dana, the realtor, out of the way, but Cuddy could tell he didn't want to date this woman. He flirted, but it lacked the charm he was capable of. Maybe he still had feelings for Sam; Cuddy didn't know, but regardless, his heart wasn't into it.

"I think you should get the next one," Wilson said in the car before they'd even seen the house, before they were even on the same street as the property.

Cuddy looked in her rear view as she changed lanes. "You don't like her."

"She's fine," he lied. "But from what she told me, the hou –" He abruptly cut himself off before he could say the word, house. She hadn't had to expressly forbid using House's name, but Wilson had obviously known that saying that word in front of Rachel would be... troublesome. "I mean the _property_ sounds like something you'll enjoy."

Cuddy let the near slip slide. "I don't know. I get the feeling she senses my desperation and –"

"And you thought I wanted to date someone like that."

"Not necessarily _date_. But –"

"I wanna go home," Rachel whined loudly from the back seat, her feet kicking into the air in frustration.

"I know, honey. We're just gonna look at one more home," Cuddy told her encouragingly as she pulled into the driveway of the next house.

Wilson uttered under his breath, "God, I hope so."

"Not you too," she said with a smile.

She expected him to say something, but he didn't. She guessed that was the reaction she should have anticipated. Wilson was nice; he was a good man. If there were any hint of irritation or frustration in her, he would do his best to ameliorate the situation. Given what she'd been through, of course, he would stop. He wouldn't continue with the joke, needle her until she couldn't stand it anymore. He wasn't House.

And _that_ was why she would never be attracted to Wilson, she thought in that moment. He would be good for her, _stable_ , but he would never make her… _insatiable_ , caught somewhere between wanting to kill him and wanting to make love to him.

That shouldn't have been a bad thing. She should have wanted someone who _wouldn't_ drive his car through her home. As House had proven, there were far worse things than a man who was kind and _safe_. Somehow though… she knew she would never want what a man like Wilson could offer. She would always feel as though she were settling.

Unless she made the same mistake twice, she would always be alone.

"Cuddy?" Wilson asked out of concern, forcing her back to reality. She turned to look at him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

It was hardly believable, but in front of Rachel, he wouldn't push the matter beyond asking, "Are you going to get out of the car?"

Cuddy realized he was right; she hadn't moved. "Yeah," she said shaking her head as though to clear her thoughts. "Yes, of course."

Dutifully she pulled the keys out of the ignition and grabbed her purse. Wilson's eyes were set on her. Though he attempted to stifle the worry in the look, he wasn't successful. She could tell that he expected her to confess what was wrong – or, because he knew the answer to that question, to turn to him then for comfort. The weight of that was heavy, made her skin blush angrily with embarrassment. She didn't like needing him, didn't like needing reassurance from someone who actually _got off_ on helping women in her position. So she forced herself to ignore him and get out of the car.

Without glancing back at him, she went straight to Rachel and began to unbuckle her from her car seat. Immediately Rachel motioned to be picked up.

Cuddy, however, had carried her around for the tour of the first three houses. Her arms were beginning to ache, and she wanted Rachel to expend enough energy that she would go down for her afternoon nap easily. "No, I think it's time for you to walk a little bit."

She set Rachel on the ground, eliciting a loud "No."

"Yes, you'll be fine." Rachel didn't budge, forcing Cuddy to gently scoot her away from the car so she could close the door.

"Up," Rachel demanded, this time more firmly. When Cuddy began to walk past her, Rachel started to cry. There were no tears in the noisy sobs; she was doing it to get her way, which ensured she wouldn't.

"Come on, Rachel," she said casually, as Wilson started walking up the driveway. "You don't want to be left behind." Cuddy didn't look back as she went ahead with Wilson. "She'll come," she explained to Wilson quietly.

Predictably enough Rachel stopped crying the second she realized her ploy for attention wasn't going to work. Running as quickly as she could, she followed after Cuddy. With that tiny issue easily resolved, Cuddy finally got a look at the house.

Based on the first few picks, she wasn't expecting to like Dana's current choice at all, and truthfully she wasn't sure she did. A gray cedar roof made the house look old, like something out of the English countryside despite being set on Carnegie Lake. The siding was white, which surely meant that every time a bug killed itself on her house or a stray cat marked its territory, _she_ would know it had happened. And that wasn't even beginning to consider how much she'd have to pay someone to rake up the leaves of the many adult-sized trees that seemed to line the property.

"Let her at least show you inside this one before you reject it," Wilson told her. "Don't talk yourself into not liking it."

She wanted to roll her eyes at the advice but didn't. He was doing her a favor after all, and given that they'd driven together, he was now trapped with her until she found a house or gave up. "I'll keep that in mind."

Her words were more than just diplomacy. She guessed he was right. The house was close to the hospital, more so than her last place had been. It would have been foolish to immediately relinquish the potential convenience because of the house's color.

"I admit," Dana said excitedly as they met her at the front door. "When you sent me your criteria, this didn't _exactly_ fit but –"

"What does that mean – doesn't exactly fit?" Cuddy asked pointedly, Rachel burying her face in the back of her mother's legs. Instinctively, in spite of what she'd said in front of the car, Cuddy reached down and picked her up.

Dana unlocked the door. "It's one story, like you wanted. No pool, although it does back up against the lake – the views are fantastic; you'll love it. Original owners have a sick kid or nephew or mother or something – maybe it's their dog – I don't know. Anyway, they're selling it relatively cheap for the capital, so it's near your price range despite its –"

" _Near_ ," Cuddy pointed out. "How –"

"Doesn't matter what they're asking. It's whether we can convince them to take less than what they want. In this case, I'm sure we can come to an agreement that's within the upper range of your –"

"Then why did you hesitate to show me it?" Cuddy could only take that to mean that the price was _significantly_ more than she wanted to pay. And just looking at the house from the outside, she could tell that that must have been the case. A long driveway to reach a home set far back from the sidewalk, huge trees and a well-kempt flowerbed, and decorative dormers along the house – there was something obviously moneyed about the property.

"It's five bedrooms, more than you wanted."

Cuddy shook her head. "I don't need that many –"

"Let me show you what it looks like inside," Dana said, opening the door and gesturing for them to step inside.

"I think you should give it a chance," Wilson agreed. "Besides, you could use an extra room for a study or –"

"If you ever have another baby, there'll be plenty of room. Just take a look. I'll think you'll really like it."

Cuddy nodded her head in acquiescence. She hadn't been convinced; she just wanted the conversation to stop. From her perspective, finding a place to live under these circumstances was difficult enough. She didn't need to listen to them convince her that this was the right home, not when they were just desperate for her to purchase _something_. And she really didn't need to hear about babies or other ways she could adjust to fill the house. Her life was complicated enough without thinking about what else she might like to change.

Ignoring them, she carried Rachel into the house and began looking around. Honestly it was hard to find anything she liked. Oh, the family room and master bedroom had beautiful fireplaces she could make use of in the winter. The kitchen had a large window behind the sink that would make doing dishes less irritating – especially in the summer when the sun would set late and she'd be able to look out and see pink sky over the green trees and blue lake. The yard was large; the entire property a little over two acres in size, and Rachel would surely love running around and playing, learning to climb the trees and catch butterflies and feed squirrels. The extra space could easily be used to potentially house her mother when Arlene was no longer capable of living alone or could be turned into a playroom for Rachel. No, it wasn't that the house had nothing to offer, that it was in disrepair or horribly suited to her taste. For although it was bigger than she wanted, Cuddy actually _did_ recognize that the place seemed nice enough. But...

Part of her hated it.

She didn't want to move, didn't want to envision herself in another home after all the years she'd spend in her last house. She didn't like that this was being forced on her and liked even less the fact that, if she had been told a year ago she would be moving, she would have assumed it would be to move in with _him_. She could have never imagined that this would be happening because of him, because of what he'd done.

It was hard to enjoy the process with her knowing that she was doing it because he had _forced_ this upon her. She could afford it, sure. Financially she had made wise investments over the years, and the dual nature of her job allowed for a larger paycheck than someone who only performed administrative or scholarly duties would receive. House hadn't left her destitute, wouldn't. The problem was not a monetary one. That didn't make it any better for her.

All she could see in the paint, in the strategically staged furniture was her own loneliness. She could buy this place, and she would like it well enough. But she would always see in it the circumstances under which she had purchased the home. She would always remember what he had done. Maybe that would get easier with time, but she doubted it. As new as their break up still was, she tended to believe he would be her last boyfriend for… too long of a time.

Who would want to date the woman with the crazy ex? Who would she trust enough to welcome into her life?

As Cuddy toured the porch off the family room, she suddenly had enough. The house was fine, but she couldn't stand feeling like House was behind her pushing her into this. She didn't like knowing that, even in jail, he was dictating what she did.

"You know what, Dana?" she suddenly said, holding Rachel close. "I think I need some more time to think about this. I'll get back to you by Monday with my decision, if that's okay."

Both Wilson and Dana looked at her like they were missing something. But only Dana started to ask, "Are you sure? Because –"

"Yes. I am. We should leave," Cuddy said to Wilson. "But I'll let you know if I want to put an offer down or look at something else."

Awkward goodbyes followed, Wilson dutifully falling in line. Only when they were in the car did he let any of his concern show through. "Are you okay?"

Cuddy didn't answer. All she said was, "I'm hungry. Let's get lunch."

"Okay. Where –"

"There's a McDonalds just down the street. We passed it on the way over." Wilson was understandably surprised by the choice. When they had lunch together at the hospital, she tended to stick to fare that required little cooking: salads, yogurt with granola. Nutrition aside, those foods allowed her to eat almost immediately – which she wanted when there was always a chance that work would call her away.

Today she only had one practical concern on her mind at the moment: distracting Rachel. Cuddy wanted to answer Wilson's question, but she couldn't truthfully with her daughter present.

"Rachel can play on the jungle gym while we talk."

"You sure about that?" he asked doubtfully. "She's been sticking kind of close to you."

"Once she eats a little and sees the other kids playing, she'll want to join them."

Rachel didn't disappoint. She ate her apple slices and one chicken nugget before being whisked away by the sight of happy children playing in the pit of brightly colored balls. Part of her hesitated to leave, but Cuddy told her, "Go play. Mommy will be right here if you need something, all right?"

Rachel gave her a hug and then toddled off to climb into the jungle gym.

When she'd gotten far enough away that she couldn't possibly hear what they were saying, Wilson initiated the conversation. "I've never seen someone eat a strawberry sundae from here."

"They're good," Cuddy insisted. But she hadn't eaten much of it, instead using her spoon to stir the syrup and ice cream into an unappetizing pink mixture.

"What happened?" Wilson asked.

She pushed Rachel's food away from the edge of the table. "It was a nice house."

"That it was."

"I guess I like it."

"Then what happened? Why not put a bid on it?"

"I think I will. I don't know. I just kept thinking that I'm looking for a house because of what he did."

Wilson didn't look surprised. He simply nodded his head as though he understood. "And then you started thinking about him running his car through your home."

"A little bit. Mostly, I was wishing that my choices didn't feel like a direct response to his behavior."

There was silence between them as he contemplated what she was saying. When he finally spoke, he was angry. "He should be here to see this," he declared.

Cuddy didn't understand, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. "Why would you want _House_ to be –"

"He gets to go to jail. He doesn't have to see any of _this_ ," Wilson explained. "He should know what he's done."

"No," she said with an emphatic shake of the head. "He deserves to be –"

"Of course he does. I'm not – Cuddy, I'm not saying he shouldn't be charged or punished for what he's done."

Cuddy understood then what it was Wilson was saying, what he meant. Being with _her_ was harder than he envisioned prison being for House. Seeing all he had today, from Rachel's behavior to Cuddy's own, had made Wilson unhappier. It had probably made him wish that he'd known what House was going to do. Cuddy had already told Wilson that it wasn't his fault, but surely he felt guilty about being the one to ride over with House, to see him right before the crash and do seemingly nothing to stop it. This would only make the feeling worse.

"It's hard for you to witness, because you care. You have a conscience. If he were here, he wouldn't care that Rachel cries all the time or that she's become extremely attached to me. He wouldn't pay attention to any of that, and if he did, it would only be because it irritated him."

Wilson couldn't argue with that. "I guess," he said sheepishly. "I don't know. Somehow when I think of all we've been through, jail doesn't seem like enough."

On that they agreed. There really didn't seem to be any punishment in the world suitable for the man who had hurt her – _them_ – so much.

* * *

Monday morning, Cuddy placed the call to Dana and confirmed that she wanted to make an offer on the house. As reluctant as Cuddy had been to make choices because of House, she despised the idea of refraining from decisions because of him just as much. And in the end, she needed a place to live. She needed to give Rachel stability. However it made Cuddy feel, she had to put that aside and make the right choices for her daughter.

The conversation itself went as planned. Dana was relieved to have hooked a potential buyer. They debated offers and chose a number ten minutes after Cuddy had placed the call. Everything was going as she'd intended.

Then Sanford Wells knocked on her office door.

Cuddy wasn't expecting him. There had been no scheduled meeting, and he tended to be polite enough to call ahead before barging in on her. He liked to run the hospital with a veneer of casualness, but he wouldn't have been so rude as to show up unannounced unless it was important.

"Dana, I'm going to have to call you back," Cuddy said as she waved him into her office. Quickly hanging up the phone, she gestured for the chairman of the hospital board to sit. "Please take a seat. What can I do for you?"

"Thank you," he said curtly before sitting down in the chair across from her desk.

"Did we have a meeting or –"

"I wanted to let you know that I cancelled the meeting you were supposed to have with the board this week."

She looked at him carefully as though the explanation would be written on his face. When it wasn't, she asked, "Any particular reason why? Or why you felt the need to tell me in person?"

He clasped his hands together calmly. "Before we convene the rest of the board, you should be prepared for the meeting."

"And you don't think I am," she deduced, surprised by his conclusion.

"Let's make no mistake: I trust you to run this hospital. I backed you with Atlantic Net. Not many people would have done that." It was a point ill made. He had allowed her to proceed in that matter the way she wanted – all the while threatening to fire her if she didn't deliver. "If you choose to ask the board to revoke House's tenure and fire him, I will, again, support you with that decision."

"Then why cancel the meeting?"

Sanford exhaled roughly. "A few reasons. They amount to: you don't have the votes, and you don't want the attention."

"That's news to me," she said honestly. Fighting the urge to fiddle with her necklace, Cuddy asked, "Whose support wouldn't I have?"

"Ron, for starters."

"I guess that's not surprising. He's always respected what –"

"You need unanimous approval."

She nodded her head. "I realize that. I can get it. Ron owes –"

"He doesn't seem to be under that impression. He's trying to convince some of the others that House's behavior is a private matter and not subject to the board's –"

"He drove his _car_ through my home," she said, trying to sound as calm as she could. "It may have been for personal reasons, but House is a danger to others."

"I don't disagree. But you don't have the votes right now."

She shrugged. "Then you can wait for a conviction, and when a reporter calls and asks why you waited to fire –"

"I don't want a conviction," Sanford said in a firm voice that displayed just how convinced he was that this was the right thing to do.

The statement and the honesty behind it shocked Cuddy, but she realized almost immediately that she shouldn't have been. Sanford only knew what Ron's plans were, because the two had talked, apparently, and Ron had been successful. Her tone equally stern, she said, "I don't know what Ron said to you, but I can assure you that it will take far more than 'It was personal' to convince _me_."

"Understandable," he said with a gentle bob of the head. "You know more than anyone else what House's value at the hospital is."

"I do. For that very reason, it should be apparent to you how gravely I take his actions in this matter," she said, folding her arms across her chest.

"Nevertheless he has great success rates, and more importantly, he brings us a clientele who attract attention. I don't see other doctors treating leaders of other countries –"

"You do realize Mr. Dibala _died_ in House's care."

Sanford smiled and waved off that point. "Doesn't matter. Potential patients look at that and think twice about choosing other hospitals."

Cuddy felt like laughing but didn't. "Patients care about cost and distance, the latter something we have no control over and the former I've worked hard to make less of a barrier."

"For the most part, yes. There are those, however, with a certain amount of income that give them the freedom to choose where they go and most importantly who they donate their money to."

"They're not going to donate to someone who –"

"If he's convicted, that's true. If this goes any further than it has, you would be right. Like I said, I trust you to run this hospital. Whatever you choose, I will do my best to support you." The sentiment was anemic at best, making it obvious that he didn't really feel that way. "All I'm asking is that before you finalize your decision, you consider the ramifications. _And_ the alternatives."

She stayed quiet for a moment – _not_ to do what he suggested, because she had already decided the second House hade made his choice how she wanted to respond. But she was afraid that if she revealed to Sanford how she felt, she would not do it tactfully.

When she thought she could talk without yelling, she went for the more direct route, "What exactly would you like me to do?" He opened his mouth, no doubt to repeat the same line about backing her choice up, but she stopped him. "Clearly you have a preference as to how I should proceed. I'd like to know what your plan is."

"Don't put him in prison. With his mouth, he'll be dead in a month." He was joking, but she almost wished he wasn't. "Right now, there isn't much press, but if goes to jail, that changes. Suddenly, there's a spotlight on the hospital – and _you_. We'll lose donors, and as you know, when we lack funds, what goes first is care for the poor and uninsured. And _they_ will be the ones who lose the most in this."

She tucked the thought away for later but didn't take the time to pick apart the logic for the moment. As tempting as it was, it would only make her look eager to disregard all input from her employer. Granted she _was_ , but she needed to seem above that kind of vengeful behavior; she needed to seem impartial. And the fact was if this were anyone else, she would take the time to consider what she was being told. She would look at it from all angles before making a choice. The same had to at least appear to be true with this.

"Let's assume I agree with you there," she said carefully. "It'll be bad for business. What would you have me do with him?"

Sanford grinned. "If you were to drop the case, you could easily put him on leave and, when everyone has forgotten what he did or stopped caring, fire him then. We won't lose the confidence of our purse strings by and large, and his personality will guarantee that no one ever hires him again. Your hands are clean, but you benefit."

It was too neatly presented for Cuddy to accept openly. With a sigh, she simply offered, "I'll think about it." Then she realized the problem with his solution. "But even if I wanted to have the charges dropped, I'm not sure I can make that happen."

"Of course you can." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cough drops. Unraveling the paper to get to another lozenge, he said suddenly, "My wife is obsessed with the Titanic – the actual ship, not the movie. Watches documentaries about it all the time. You know how the Titanic sunk?"

She wasn't sure how to respond or what the point of the conversation was. "An iceberg," she said cautiously, confusion making her voice quaver. "Who doesn't know that?"

"The ship had sixteen compartments built into it. They were said to be watertight, but of course they weren't. They didn't want passengers to have to walk up steps to get around the compartments, so they put doors in the damn thing. Actual doors," he said, popping a cough drop in his mouth. "How dumb is that? Anyway, these compartments were supposed to be able to take on water and keep the ship afloat. You could flood any two, in some scenarios three, and it would be all right. Or you could flood the first four, and the ship would be okay. Know what happened? Five compartments flooded in the first hour."

"That's a wonderful history lesson," she said dryly.

"If you're willing to drop the charges, everything else will fall in line. It only takes one, and then the rest buckle under the weight. Wilson's probably looking for a reason to forgive House anyway," he said in a way that made Cuddy's stomach clench painfully.

Wilson hadn't said anything like that – _yet_. But Cuddy realized that she feared now that he would. He always forgave House. _Always_. He was angry now, but there was no guarantee that he would stay that way. And Sanford was right; if Cuddy wanted to let House go, Wilson wouldn't fight her on it. He would be supportive.

"You know everyone involved," Sanford explained. "And from what I've seen," he said, standing up. "You can be extremely persuasive when you choose to be."

"How long do I have to think about it?"

He shrugged. "The sooner you make your choice, the better. There is a time factor involved whether you decide to prosecute or not. But if you could let me know what you decide by the beginning of next month, that would be ideal."

"All right."

"Then I'll let you get back to work."

She should have said something to ease his exit, so that it didn't seem as abrupt as it was. But she was too busy thinking about his solution to care about anything else.

Hours later she still hadn't wrapped her mind around this turn of events. Before, no one in her life would profess to be a fan of House's. People had begged her to fire him, demanded it hotly after he'd done something unprofessional. Aside from Wilson, _no one_ had liked him. And now, she was surrounded by people imploring her to think the best of the man who had tried to kill her.

Somehow, when she wasn't looking, the earth had shifted on its axis, and she was now in a universe that wanted him regardless of what he had done. Sanford had repeated how he would do what she wanted, but that was just talk. In truth he didn't care about her at all, what she wanted; he cared about getting his way, and what he wanted was to implement a solution that completely ignored what she'd been through, what she was going through.

He wasn't the only one, of course. Dominika wanted her anchor to the country back. Rachel, not knowing the circumstances, wanted her friend. The only person who seemed to care at all was Wilson, but even he had made a comment about the ineffectiveness of jail.

He didn't think prison was enough for House – a sentiment Sanford Wells had echoed.

Cuddy understood what they were both getting at now. It hadn't been about how miserable she'd made Wilson. His comment had been kinder than that.

He'd been saying that jail wouldn't be easy for House. He was probably being treated poorly or had been or would be isolated from the other prisoners because of his inability to play nice. Naturally he would hate all of it: being forced to hold his tongue, being forced to listen to others' commands. In simple terms, it would be Hell for him, which was the least he deserved.

But she was beginning to see that maybe Wilson and Sanford were right. In that environment, House would have plenty of opportunities to suffer. He wouldn't have any chance to see how he had made _her_ suffer (or Rachel or Wilson or her sister or anyone else). He would envision in a moment of bitterness that she was happy, screwing every man in sight, having celebrations at the hospital. She'd gotten rid of the biggest pain in her ass, and he would assume that that meant she was _happy_. And in his head, he would become the victim.

He would be the man ruined. That this was all by his own design would eventually be ignored. She would become the cold-hearted woman who had used him and dumped him when it was convenient. If he thought of her fondly, he would remind himself quickly of how happy she was to be without him, and he would return to his one-dimensional version of her. Controlled, surrounded by the threat of violence and punishment, he would see himself as the one who had suffered the most, the only one who was currently suffering. Part of her wanted to believe that he would take responsibility for his state and accept the blame.

But why would he?

Instead of reflecting upon his own behavior when they'd broken up, he had slept with every prostitute he could find. He had gotten married to hurt her. He had taken advantage of his proclivity for self-destruction and used it as a weapon to make _her_ feel bad. And when she had felt bad, when she'd tried to reach out to him, he had responded with violence, because she had dared to be kind while flirting with other men.

He wouldn't change now. He didn't believe people could change. His part in all of this would fade away from his own memory, and he would see himself as the innocent party. She knew it.

But what was the alternative? Letting him go free?

No, that wouldn't work. How could she ever feel safe with him loose on the streets? If she couldn't make him take responsibility, she thought she should at least do whatever it was that would make her happy.

Then she remembered that, because of House, she wasn't sure she would ever be happy again.

The choice suddenly seemed difficult to make. Sighing she thought she just had no idea what to do.

_To be continued_


	6. No Place To Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: POTENTIAL TRIGGER -- Please be aware that this chapter contains implications of sexual assault. No assault is shown, but there are moments that allude to that possibly happening. There's nothing graphic, but I can understand that some of this chapter might be triggering, so keep that in mind.

_"True passion is not a wisp-light – it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the heart in which it has been enkindled to dust and ashes." – William Winter_

Morning never failed to betray him. With his eyes closed, he half-dreamed, half-believed that he was in bed next to her. He could see it – like a movie he was watching: she'd turned away from him in the middle of the night, the air too warm for her to stay close. But if he rolled over, he would be with her again, face buried in her dark hair, a hand cupping her hip, his erection pressed into her ass. Nearly asleep she would groan and grind against him until one of them would slide her shorts down and guide his dick into her. He would hold her close as he took her slowly, and after they came, he would fall back to sleep, his cock still inside her.

Every single morning, he imagined _that_ being his world… only to be abruptly awoken to the reality of jail. He wasn't with her. He was alone on a cold metal bed with his dick painfully hard and no remedy for it. However pathetic he'd become, he wasn't going to jerk himself off in prison. No matter how frequently he dreamed of her, he wouldn't let himself act on that attraction, not here, not ever.

For the past week though, it didn't matter either way. He knew that even if he'd wanted to masturbate, there would be no point. He was in too much pain.

Withdrawal was fading into the background, giving the reason for his addiction a chance to bubble to the surface. At first, he had tried to focus his mind on other things, the few meetings he had with his lawyer, the routine he had to learn. He had tried to tell himself that the pain was a result of the Vicodin withdrawal; the pain would get better; the pain would go away. After all, he had gone for so long without the pills. He had at one point managed to live comfortably without the drug. He had told himself he could do it again.

This morning however, he knew all of that was a lie. It was too much for him. He woke up to the familiar fantasy only to have it abruptly cut off by pain so searing he nearly broke his teeth mashing them together to stop himself from screaming.

For several long minutes, he could do nothing more than let the pain consume him. His whole body tensed, breath hitched in his throat. If his heart were to stop beating, it would seem understandable given the stress his system was under. He was caught beneath the weight of it, and all he could do was wait for the discomfort to lessen. Or for this level of pain to become his new normal. Some semblance of that thought passed through him. Whichever solution came first.

Slowly though, _thankfully_ , the roiling pain dissipated into a sharp ache. It would never go away completely, but at least it wasn't as bad now. His muscles unclenched, and he inhaled deeply, gasping for air. And deep within, a voice whispered for the Vicodin.

It was impossible to ignore the idea once the thought had been conceived. Vicodin would make his problems worse, but it would make this one better. It would make the pain go away. It would allow him to get up and head to the showers with a little less concern as to how he would make it there. He didn't have to take the entire bottle; he didn't have to go back to the drug completely, he tried to tell himself.

It was a lie easily spotted, but he _wanted_ to believe it. He really did.

He wanted the drug. He wanted the pain to go away. He wanted it to have never existed.

But it wasn't an option. Rational thought suddenly cutting through, he knew that getting the Vicodin was no longer a choice he could afford to make. In the past, that would have made no difference. He was an addict after all; negative consequences didn't have the same effect they would have had on someone who could control their Vicodin intake easily. Things had changed though. He was in jail now, and if he were to take Vicodin here….

The consequences were ones he feared.

So far, he hadn't had any altercations. The other prisoners must have thought he was pitiful, a cripple limping around jail. No one thought he was a threat, but at the same time, there was nothing to be had in hurting him. Harassing the gimp would lessen your cred… or something like that. He didn't really know the logic at work here.

If House had Vicodin though? That would all change – dramatically so. No one would care that he wasn't physically capable of defending himself as well as another man. No one would take pity on him; they would just want the drugs. And given that they were all in jail, it wasn't hard to believe that someone would give into temptation and hurt him in order to get the pills.

The quickest way to incapacitate him? The source of his pain.

His shaky hands rubbed his thigh, moving over the uneven and scarred flesh. This was all he could do, he told himself. He could ask to go to the correctional medical unit and ask for aspirin, but he knew the danger in that. If he were to make that seemingly long trip, he would _not_ ask for anything other than Vicodin. The desire was too strong for him to resist, and so he couldn't give himself the opportunity to even give into the feeling. He didn't want the pain, but it had to be this way.

If Wilson were here, if Wilson still talked or cared about him at all, he would say that House was making this choice to punish himself. Wilson would also probably say that the pain itself was a psychosomatic side effect of his guilt. House hurt more, because he had hurt Cuddy. He allowed himself to suffer, because he knew he had done something unfathomably selfish and cruel.

Was there something to that?

Maybe. Probably. House didn't like to consider himself a tortured man, a masochistic one. But secretly he realized the logic in his internal Wilson's beliefs. It would make sense.

Then again, it didn't matter. He was in pain. He had hurt the people he cared most about, and now they hated him. He might not have been trying to punish himself, but punishment was something he deserved. And whatever his reasoning, he would continue to hurt. That no one needed to feel that way more than him was almost irrelevant, because his leg would never be normal again. But at the same time, it wasn't unimportant to _him_ , because he knew: he deserved the pain.

As he stood up to go to the showers, House wondered then if he really believed that. If he truly felt that he should suffer, then why _not_ go demand Vicodin? Why was he hesitating to accept the horrors that would come with that? He had no answer for that, so he just kept walking.

Two days later, he was doing the same thing, heading to the showers. Everyone tended to give each other a wide birth at this time of day. Getting naked in front of each other wasn't exactly something anyone enjoyed. It was awkward, and from House's experience, the goal was to get through it as quickly as possible without eliciting attention from anyone. Today however, things were different.

Usually men tiredly moved through the hall. They avoided eye contact and conversation, just doing what they needed to get in and out of the shower and back to their cells. But when House left his bed today, three or four cells down, there was a small crowd of people. They were bunched together in a semi-circle, clearly looking into someone's cell.

House didn't care what the issue was. He could hear a few men talking, but he didn't pay any attention. He just wanted to shower and be done with it. Unfortunately, it was impossible to miss what was going on as he passed by.

In the cell were two guards and two prisoners. Just at first glance, it didn't look like anything interesting was going on. The cellmates were shirtless and sweaty, but people tended to appear mussed when they first woke up. That didn't mean anything. But the conversation between the four men caught House's interest.

"You want to tell us what's going on?" the guard to the left, a burly redhead, asked. The prisoners shook their head, a blond man blushing in embarrassment. "Well, you know we're gonna have to get to the bottom of this."

Someone outside of the cell snickered at the word "bottom," making the guards realized they weren't handling this privately. The other guard who had remained quiet thus far turned around and barked, "All right, ladies. That's enough gossip. Hit the showers or you're gonna be in lockdown for the rest of the day."

House kept moving. As he showered, he half-heartedly wondered what had gone on to attract that much attention. He had suspicions, of course, but they all seemed like a regurgitation of _Lesbian Prison Stories._ It was possible that those two cellmates had had sex or worse, statistically likely even. But there was something so stereotypical about it that it almost felt ridiculous to suspect it. And in the end, he would never know the truth either way. Even if he questioned someone about it, no one would ever tell him, and so by the time he finished his shower, he'd completely forgotten about it.

Unfortunately when he returned to his cell, he was forced to remember. On the cot opposite his sat the blonde man from earlier.

Immediately, before House could stop himself, he demanded, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm your new cellmate," the stranger said with equal dissatisfaction at the situation.

House scowled. "Lucky me." Unceremoniously he laid down on his slab of a bed. He guessed he should have known this would happen. He couldn't be alone in his cell forever. At some point, some drunken fool would run his car over a two-year-old child, or a man would rob a bank, and that space would be needed. But somehow House thought it would happen differently. The person he would be stuck with wouldn't be a young and agile-looking man… who might or might not have sexually assaulted someone earlier today.

House didn't want to think that was true. If this Chase wannabe had done something like that, surely he would be segregated from every anus in the joint. Whatever had happened, it had to be something else, House thought, closing his eyes to take a nap.

Roomie didn't pay attention to that. He just kept talking. "Name's Gene. What's yours?"

"Greg," House said coldly.

Gene still didn't take the hint. "Cool. I got arrested cause I hired a hooker… who was also apparently a heroin addict. Cops busted us, saw all the smack, and assumed some of it was mine. Fucking cunt. Got charged with distribution. Can you believe it? What are you in for?"

"Shooting someone who didn't keep quiet when I was trying to sleep," House muttered.

"Seriously?"

" _No_."

Gene thought about it for a second and then said, "Oh I get it."

"Congratulations."

"I'll shut up then."

And he did. But it was impossible to miss from then on that House was living with someone else. The space that constituted a cell was too small for two people. House came to realize that quickly. For the next week, Gene seemed to be everywhere and always irritating, even when he wasn't saying anything at all. They had plenty of time to be out of their cells and away from one another. Yet it didn't feel like that. If House went to the library, somehow Gene ended up there too. If House decided to wile the day away sleeping, Gene would come back early from playing basketball to take a nap too.

House couldn't tell if it was intentional on his part, if Gene was trying to be friends with him or if there were possibly something more sinister in his roommate's sudden interest. The only way to decipher Gene's motivation would be to talk to him, get to know him enough to understand what exactly his goals were. But House had no desire for conversation. On the contrary, he wanted to wall himself off completely.

He didn't want a friend, didn't deserve one. And certainly if he needed someone to talk to, it would be someone who fundamentally understood that he liked his privacy. It would not be the person who would walk in on him while he was mid-dump and start talking to him as though nothing was happening. The person House confided in wasn't going to be the fool who seemed intent on following him around like a lost puppy. But Gene didn't take the hint, no matter how terribly House treated him.

Admittedly there was something about all of this that House found distracting. Although he didn't like this new problem, at least it made him think of something other than Cuddy and what he'd done for a little bit.

He always remembered though. _Always._ The rush of the car and the house crumbling around him, Cuddy's shock and Wilson's disgust – it all returned when it did, he felt the need to throw up.

How could he focus on anything other than that? He wouldn't even be here if not for that. How could he _not_ think about that?

When he realized his mistake that night, he groaned. Instantly Gene turned his head in House's direction. "You okay, man?"

"Fine."

"It doesn't sound like it."

House rolled his eyes in the dark. "I don't care."

He could hear Gene rolling over. "Is it your leg? What the hell happened with that thing anyway?"

"Wood chipper accident," House said dryly.

The humor was lost on Gene. "Seriously?"

For a second, House wondered what he'd done to deserve having someone so irritating in his life. Then the answer was obvious, and he hated it. "No," he said frustratedly.

"Then what happened? I mean, I know something's wrong."

"You're _smart_."

"I seen your leg in the shower. If you tell me what happened, I don't know, I can run to the med unit for you. They might give me something to bring back if you want."

House raised an eyebrow. "Well that's good to know," he said sarcastically. "I was really hoping someone would stare at me in the shower. What I always wanted."

"That's not what I meant. I did – I didn't do that," Gene said angrily. "I'm not gay."

"Yeah… I think somewhere in this conversation, you got the impression that I cared either way, and I don't."

"I _mean_ it, Greg."

There was something about the way it was said that gave House pause – a dangerous edge to the words perhaps. In the darkness, it was impossible to look over and see how serious Gene was being, just how awfully he would react if House took it a little further. But House had no real desire to taunt the man anymore.

He had learned just how far he could go when he vehemently kept a person out of his life or forced them out. What he had done to Cuddy had been a testament to that. Having lost her and Wilson permanently, House wanted to feel as though that moment had had some sort of purpose. It had taught him something or… he didn't know what he wanted from ramming his car through Cuddy's home. He just wanted something that made that behavior slightly more forgivable. And he knew that if he allowed himself to be as ruthless with this kid as he had been with people he actually cared about, there was no telling what would happen.

Besides, Gene had been arrested for something. He didn't seem like a threat, but how could House be sure?

Uncharacteristically backing off, House said, "You know what, Gene? You're right."

"Good."

They fell into uneasy silence, punctuated every now and then by a sneeze or the sound of someone peeing in the distance. In the small cell, the tension was impossible to miss, even harder to escape. House rolled over onto his stomach and closed his eyes and hoped that that would be the end of Gene's behavior. He hoped it was clear that they weren't friends, weren't ever going to be friends.

The next day, it seemed like Gene had realized the state of their relationship, which was to say that they didn't have one. They ate breakfast without a word to one another. They went about their separate ways as best as they could in their jailed universe. But there was only so much they could do without being near one another. The precarious nature of their dynamic was bound to shift from tentatively quiet co-existence to something else. Not necessarily bad or dangerous, he thought, but things couldn't continue as they were. They would talk again at some point.

The conversation happened the next day when they were both headed to the library separately. House ended up behind Gene in the hallway, which shouldn't have been an issue. But it was.

"Stop followin' me, man," Gene said loudly abruptly turning around.

House pointed out, equally annoyed, "I wasn't. I just happen to be going in the same –"

"Are you obsessed or just –"

"I'm not the one staring at my cellmate's junk in the shower," House said in a low voice, knowing that that kind of information didn't need to be spread throughout the prison. No one else had heard besides the person who needed to hear it.

But Gene, red with rage, couldn't see that. His hand forming into a tight fist, he snarled, "You talk about that again, and I'm gonna hit you."

"Then do us both a favor and don't talk to me."

"Fine."

Gene spun on his heel and stalked towards the library. But that wouldn't end matters. House had made it clear that they could never be friends, and that rejection had awoken something in Gene… or made it impossible for him to hide his true self. Gene had been agitated since they'd last talked. That wouldn't change over night.

When Gene came back from the library, House was lying in bed, and this made him furious. "Don't you have some place to be, or do you just like to lie on your back all day like a whore?"

House wanted to return the vitriol, but this dynamic had become tedious at best. "I'll leave for dinner in five minutes," he said calmly.

" _Or_ you could leave for dinner now."

He didn't want to give into the demand. He was in pain, and this crappy cot for a bed had made his sleep uneven since he'd gotten here. He wanted to close his eyes and try to forget where he was for a little bit. But it wasn't worth the fight. He really would need to head down the hall to dinner in five minutes anyway. So he got up and left without a word, silently regretting having ever said anything to this guy at all.

Regretting that he'd ever done anything to be in the same cell as him to begin with, he corrected. If he hadn't hurt Cuddy, he wouldn't be here. If he'd just turned and walked away when he'd seen her with that guy, things could have been… okay.

But then they couldn't have been, because she would have dated _him_. And he would be forced to watch her move on, the idea of which made him want to grab her and hold her close.

At the same time, he understood that, because of what he did, she would never let him touch her now. Before there'd been a very, _very_ slim chance that she would some day forgive him. There was no chance of that now.

She hated him.

She _hated_ him, because in that moment outside her home, he had convinced himself that he despised her. And he had punished her for something that he had no right to be mad about. She'd only dumped him because of the Vicodin, because of the choices he made. If she had been with someone else, it had been because he'd practically forced her into another man's arms.

So now everything was wrong. No one in the world cared where he was.

Except for Gene, he thought bitterly.

* * *

When Julia opened her front door, she clearly hadn't expected to see Cuddy on the other side. But Cuddy had decided that she'd had enough of the uncertainty in her life.

Well, technically, she'd realized that weeks ago. However, there was nothing to be done while she waited to see if the homeowners accepted her offer. There was even less she could do to make Rachel happier. The situation with House could be resolved, she guessed, but she wasn't ready to make a choice about him. She needed to proceed carefully with that – or it would be her own ass on the line. But Julia's silent treatment could be fixed simply enough, and Cuddy had made the choice to drive over and settle the issue in person.

The second her sister opened the door though, Cuddy almost regretted it.

"Lisa," she said in shock. "What are you doing here?"

Cuddy tried not to sound accusatory. "You're not answering my calls."

Julia hesitated. Whether that was to say something or to let her in was unclear. Eventually she said, "The kids are at the movies. Come in."

As Cuddy stepped through the threshold, she asked, "Where's –"

"My _sweet_ husband agreed to take the kids and make sure they don't throw popcorn at other people like they did last time." There was a slight chill to the way she said it, as though she didn't quite feel that way. Proving Cuddy right, Julia said, closing the front door, "Actually, he offered to take the kids, and in exchange I promised to consider having another baby. Can I get you some tea?"

The little tidbit was meant to wound, and it did. Julia hadn't said anything before now about possibly having another child. Perhaps she meant what she said; she'd agreed, possibly after several nos, to consider trying for another one. But telling Cuddy today was not a coincidence. Julia wanted to hurt her, and she could, because she had a husband and decent fertility, which made trying for one more the easy choice Cuddy herself had never had the ability to make.

"That would be great" was all she said aloud though. She would like to fight back, but she knew she couldn't. The tension between them needed to be resolved, and in order for that to happen, Cuddy understood she would need to be far more forgiving of her sister than her sister had been of her.

Together they walked into the kitchen, and Julia busied herself putting the kettle on the stove. "I know I haven't called you back," she said honestly, the stove crackling loudly as she turned on the gas. "I wasn't sure I wanted to talk to you."

Cuddy appreciated the honesty, even though part of her wanted to kill her sister for the selfishness of her behavior. "I know that it was scary for you too," Cuddy tried to say as sympathetically as possible. "You thought we'd have a nice dinner, and… it didn't turn out that way. But I didn't think that House would –"

"You forget that I'm your sister, Lis." Julia reached into the cabinet to get two mugs. "You have been talking about how much you hate that guy for years. How _dangerous_ he is with his patients. I've heard you."

"That's different."

"I have lemon tea and chamomile. What would you like?" Cuddy pointed to the chamomile. "You knew he was capable of doing terrible things – maybe not at that level – but you've had _years_ to see that he –"

"I didn't see it," Cuddy said insistently, quietly. "You think I don't know that I should have known what he was capable of? I feel like an idiot."

Julia sighed and drummed her fingers along the stove. "That's not what I mean. I mean – that's not what I meant to say. Of course that's how you feel," she said apologetically. "I just can't believe you went on a trip after all of that. You saw what he did and left like it was nothing and –"

"That's not true."

Julia turned away from her to pour the water from the whistling kettle. Deftly and without response, she plucked tea bags from their boxes and dunked them unceremoniously into the mugs. Her hands noisily crumpled the paper the bags had once been in, and again without a word, she threw the trash away.

Cuddy didn't like the silence. She knew it meant that Julia was mad, that she didn't believe her. But Cuddy also knew that if she insisted that Julia was wrong, her words wouldn't ease the tension between them. It would make Cuddy look as though she were defensive, and Julia would take that as proof of her guilt. Knowing how much harder it would be to seem innocent once convicted, Cuddy kept her mouth shut.

Eventually though, Julia said something while handing Cuddy her tea. "I know Mom gave you the tickets. You don't have to tell me it was her idea, because she has already done that. And I get it. Okay? I know why you would want to go. _I_ would want to go, and if someone were offering a vacation to me, all expenses paid, I wouldn't say no either."

"Then… I don't understand what the problem is."

Cuddy hadn't said it with any particular anger, but it managed to upset Julia.

" _How_ do you not get it?" she practically snarled. Hot tea splashing out of her mug, Julia hissed. "Damn it." She set the cup down and reached for a tea towel to wipe herself off.

"Did you burn yourself?"

Julia's answer was abrupt. "I'm _fine_. But when you left the country, did you think how that would look?" She didn't give Cuddy a chance to respond. "Of course, you didn't, because if you thought about it at all, you would realize that it makes you look like you don't care."

Cuddy felt her jaw clench. "Really?"

"All I can think about is what will happen when we go to court. You're gonna get up on the stand and talk about what he did, and they're going to ask you how you've been since then. And you're going to have to admit at some point that you just…." She shrugged. "I don't know. You went to the damn _beach_. That's what you did. And once that's out, _no one_ will believe that what he did was that bad, because _you don't_."

"You have no idea what you're –"

"Damn it. He could have killed me. He could have killed my _husband_. Our children could have become _orphans_!" Julia shouted on the verge of tears. "And now you've screwed everything up. How could you do that?"

She wanted an explanation. She wasn't saying those things just to get them off her chest. Julia really wanted her to say something that would explain her behavior, that would justify it, or reveal something that would make all of this okay.

But Cuddy wasn't sure she had any of that in her. It seemed like the second House had driven through her home, she had been expected to please everyone around her. To give the perfect reaction for all of them would have been impossible, but somehow she had been held to that standard, had it tied around her like a noose, anyway.

Part of her tried to remind herself what she'd come here to do. Her mind mustered up unspoken promises she'd made to her mother and the conversation she would have with her should this not end well. But that wasn't enough to silence the _rage_ that had built up.

Fighting the urge to throw her tea in Julia's face, Cuddy set her cup down. Teeth gritted, she said, "My ex-boyfriend thinks so little of me that he drives his car through my home and ruins it. He hates me so much that he's willing to kill me and everyone around me without a second thought. I take that seriously. I shouldn't even have to _say_ that I do."

"Well, your behavior –"

"I am _so sick_ of hearing that," Cuddy snapped. "I'm sorry I didn't consult the _manual_ on the proper way to react to the unthinkable."

Julia's demeanor didn't change. "That's not –"

"No, of course. No one wants to tell me what to do, but everyone seems to have an opinion when I don't do exactly what they want," Cuddy said with a sneer. "I have a daughter who wants the man responsible for all of this. I have a board who would hate for me to press charges –"

" _What_?" Julia screamed in shock.

Cuddy explained quickly, "They don't want the attention, and I know you haven't worked in years, but if I don't do what they say, it's my career that –"

"That's crap," Julia said dismissively. But even before she specified, Cuddy knew that she wasn't saying it was awful that the board would do that to her. That would require Julia to be supportive, and she wasn't capable of that. It seemed like no one was. "You run that hospital. Don't act like someone else is making you –"

"I still have people to answer to," Cuddy insisted. "And this might be hard for you to understand, but I can't just do –"

"So what the hell does that mean? You're what? You're not going to take the stand? You're going to let him go like he never did anything to me? To _you_?"

"It means that I don't need another person telling me how to behave. It means that I have been through _enough_ without dealing with your anger – because I didn't want _any_ of this."

Cuddy shook her head in disbelief. She couldn't understand how the conversation had turned this way. She had had her differences with her sister in the past. They were close, but that proximity often led to fighting. Yet she'd never imagined there'd be a day when something like this would happen – when House destroyed her home and Julia hated for the way she reacted to it.

Dejected and more than a little disgusted, Cuddy cleared her throat. Forcing herself to remain calm, she said, "Look, I came here to make things better. Mom would like that. But if you think I've been somehow _immune_ to all of this, I don't know what to tell you to make any of this all right. I don't want House to be free. I don't want to put my job in jeopardy because of him either. I –"

"What are you going to do then?"

Cuddy shrugged. "I don't know, but I –"

"You want to make things right? You put him in jail, Lisa. He could have killed us all and left our kids – mine and _yours_ – without parents. Make him pay. That's how you fix this."

"Then I guess I'm not going to make things right," Cuddy said simply. "Because I'm not going to do what you want just because you tell me to."

Julia threw the tea towel into the sink. "So you're going to let him get away with –"

"I haven't decided what to do. But whatever I end up doing, it won't be because someone else _demanded_ it of me." She gave Julia a second to respond. There was no point in doing that, but Cuddy supposed she hoped, no matter how unreasonable it was to do so, that Julia would see what she was doing. Julia would understand the pressure her sister was under and apologize. Naturally though that didn't happen and probably wasn't ever going to do.

Adjusting the purse strap slipping down her shoulder, Cuddy said simply, "I'm gonna go. When you talk to Mom, you can let her know that I don't care what she has to say about this."

As she walked down the hallway and out the front door, Cuddy understood that she wasn't lying. She no longer cared what anyone else wanted of her. She'd venture to say that she had _never_ been eager to respond to House's behavior based on what others wanted her to do. But right now, in this moment, she _really_ didn't care. And as she drove back to the hotel, she knew that if she pretended to be concerned for how others felt, she would never get what she wanted from the situation. It would never feel like justice to her.

That meant, she would not do what her sister wanted. She wouldn't listen to the board. She would go a different way.

Mentally, she began to build a plan, a way to make House pay.

* * *

Gene's combativeness had grown worse over the past two days. There had been no disagreements in the halls or at dinner. The few hours they'd been allowed outside their cell, they had pretended like the other didn't exist. But when they'd been locked in together at night, things had… changed. Gene didn't do anything House wanted to complain to anyone about; he was subtle in his obnoxiousness, as odd as that sounded. Intentionally waiting to take a crap until House was in the cell was hardly something people would sympathize with and it would be even more difficult to prove.

"You can't wait until I'm gone?" House had asked the second time it happened.

"Why?" Gene had asked almost excitedly. "Does it bother you?"

House hadn't answered, because he hadn't wanted to admit that Gene's attempts at pissing him off were working. House had just rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But in not responding, he'd made things worse. How that was even possible House hadn't understood. And yet last night, Gene had jerked off loudly, something House doubted he would have done if they were friends.

Again, House brushed it off. Now that he knew Gene wanted the reaction, he was determined never to give it to him. Stubbornly House would pretend like nothing was wrong.

He thought that was for the best anyway; if he got into fights, Gemeiner would remind him that it would be that much harder to get out of jail. And his lawyer would probably be right about that.

House knew what he had to do if he wanted to be free ever again. But the longer he was in here, the more he thought… that wouldn't happen. Maybe part of him held onto this idea that if he behaved long enough, Cuddy or Wilson would somehow know that. If he was _good_ , one of them would come for him and take him back into their lives.

It was so stupid. He knew it was. As an adult, he shouldn't have needed anyone as badly as he needed them. He shouldn't have looked to them to fix his problems, to make him happy. But he had, and he did, and he didn't deserve their forgiveness at all. Yet he found himself trying to behave in a way that would show to them that he'd changed, that he _could_ change.

However, they weren't looking. They weren't going to, and he knew that every day he stayed in here, the more likely it was that he would continue to be in prison.

With a man he couldn't stand.

With a man determined to get the better of him.

Inevitably he would, but House hoped to stave that failure of self-control for as long as he could.

That night, he dreamed of Cuddy again. She was getting ready for work. Her skirt was on but unzipped, and as he opened his eyes, she'd just finished getting her bra on. He groaned in disappointment.

Seated on the edge of her bed, she turned to face him. Her smile made him hard. "Good morning," she said softly.

He let out a whine, not entirely happy to be awake at this hour. "It's too early. Come back to bed."

"I have to go in," she told him as he scooted down to where she was sitting.

Arm wrapped around his waist, he said in all seriousness, "So do I."

She rolled her eyes. "That's a terrible way to come on to me."

"I'm sorry." He kissed her bare back. "I'll be more creative between your thighs. I promise."

"I'll keep that in mind for later."

House frowned. "Yeah, okay. _Or_ I can –"

"You haven't even brushed your teeth yet," she said irritably. "And I don't want to be late." Plucking his arm from around her body, she stood up.

He didn't object as she continued to get ready. That wouldn't get him what he wanted. If he seemed desperate, she'd just get off on rejecting him. Getting up himself, he headed to the bathroom. If she wanted minty-fresh breath, she would get it. Quickly he brushed his teeth and splashed cool water on his face.

"You already have your shirt on," he complained loudly when he left the bathroom.

Buttoning her top, she said, "I knew what you were going to do. I hurried."

"I can be quick too," he offered.

"That's not a turn on."

"I give up."

"That's too bad; I was ready to change my mind."

He shook his head knowingly. "No, you weren't."

"No, I wasn't, but I like it when you try."

"I _always_ try," he insisted for a reason he didn't understand. Maybe it felt like she was saying he didn't put effort into their relationship. He didn't know where the sudden need to reiterate that point came from.

"I know," she said soothingly. "Go back to sleep. You're tired."

It was too tempting to refuse. If he wasn't going to have sex, he wasn't going to move. Without a word he crawled back onto the bed and laid his head down on her pillow. He expected to fall asleep to the sounds of her leaving. Instead he felt her sit down next to him and the back of her hand stroking his cheek.

"I thought you were leaving," he muttered into the pillow.

"I like seeing you in my bed."

"I think you'd like seeing me in other places too."

"I can guarantee you that's true."

"Just not right now," he offered.

"Later," she promised.

But then the landscape of the dream changed. They were no longer in her bed, but she was there, with him. It took a moment for the scene to settle, but once it did, he could tell that they were in his apartment. At first they were on his couch, but then there was a shift in the dream, and they were on his bed. Or he was anyway.

She was on top of him.

Riding him.

Even unconscious, he could feel the intense wave of arousal overcome him. Whatever vestiges of awareness that were in him told his dreaming self to not give into the images around him – her breasts bouncing with each of her strokes, the part of her mouth as she breathed heavily….

He shouldn't give in. He didn't want to give in, didn't want to come so that she would stay exactly where she was.

"Relax, Greg," she said, smiling, the words somehow hers but not, but that didn't make sense. "This is the best part."

"You think I don't –"

"Stop talking." She ground her hips against his, his cock sliding deep into her. "Let me do this for you."

He was helpless to deny her what she wanted, and he came both in the dream and in real life, so hard that his eyes strained and his throat burned.

Then he was awake, sweating, cold, confused, and covered in his own semen.

And above him stood Gene with a smile that made House cower. It was the grin of an animal, a monster. Gene too was sweating, his cheeks pink, and House no longer knew if this was a nightmare or reality.

His body was unable to move, lips clumsily shifting to start to ask, "Wh-what? What's going –"

"Relax, Greg. Go back to sleep."

House tried to piece together what was going on, but he couldn't. Was he still dreaming? He felt numb and unsure what had happened. Though the bile in his throat seemed real enough, he didn't know what was going on. His mind was too foggy to decipher the state of things, and he thought if that were the case, none of this could possibly be real. Because if this were happening, he would be able to focus, understand.

He blinked as a last ditch effort to comprehend. But when he opened his eyes, Gene was gone – well, lying in bed and asleep anyway. He couldn't leave at this hour; it was too early. And more generally, it was jail, so there was no way he could just _go away_. Nevertheless, Gene looked like he hadn't moved for hours. So House thought… he must have been dreaming, or he'd woken up and hallucinated something that clearly hadn't happened.

Or something.

He didn't know. All he could think – not that he could really think – was that he needed more sleep. Reluctantly he closed his eyes and immediately fell back to sleep.

When he woke up in the morning, Gene wasn't there. Uneasy House rubbed his thigh. He figured he must have gotten up late. The cellblock he was in was unusually quiet, which meant everyone had probably already started toward the shower. House knew he needed to join them, but he didn't feel like moving. Last night had been… odd, and the disjointed sleep he'd had had obviously not been enough, because he longed to stay in bed.

He couldn't though. He was gross, and he smelled. Sighing, he slowly trudged down the hallway to the showers.

As always, he aimed for speed when bathing. He wouldn't linger where he was most vulnerable, and though he had come to see that most people didn't want trouble, he was still quick. He didn't take past experience as any indication for the future.

Here there was little predictability. A schedule existed, an attempt made at keeping everyone in line. Nevertheless there was always the threat lurking in the darkness. The possibility of danger seemed more like probability, and the weeks that House had spent in jail had him slowly realizing that he couldn't avoid that danger his entire time here.

His mind pushed him towards last night's dream, but he didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about Cuddy, what she'd done to him in his subconscious. Reality was bad enough without him remembering in detail the desires that had led him here.

Going through the motions, House quickly washed himself, dried off, and got dressed again. Heading back to his cell, he decided to take a nap. But when he got there, Gene was waiting for him.

"Sleep good last night?" Gene asked, almost leering.

House paused, unsure or unwilling to understand what he meant. Yet he found himself saying, "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. I'm not talking about anything at all." Gene started to laugh.

It was the final straw for House. Although he was convinced Gene had no idea what he was talking about, the irritation, the stupidity, the constant _presence_ of someone he couldn't stand roiled within House, creating a molten core of hatred for the man he lived with.

Without even thinking, he balled his hand into a fist. He pulled back, ready to strike, all the while understanding what this would cost him. He didn't care about that though. All he wanted was blood, to give into the violence that had put him here, the rage that existed within him.

It didn't matter that this would be another crime. It didn't matter how this would look, that he would seem every bit the dangerous animal he knew in that moment he was.

He just wanted to hurt Gene.

But just when he was about to strike, he felt a strong grip on his wrist, heard the words: "Watch it there, son. You know that's against the rules," one of the guards told him.

Gene piped in, "That's right, _Greg_. Don't do anything stupid or –"

"You, shut your mouth," the guard interrupted. To House, he added, "And you come with me."

House didn't have the option as he was forcefully yanked from the cell. His thigh burned from the sudden jerking, but he didn't falter in his steps. He would not show weakness in front of Gene, not when they would still have to live together or at least pass each other in the hallways. House wouldn't let him see just how badly his leg hurt him.

Instead he asked the guard, "Where are you taking me?"

"Reception," the guard said with a sneer. "Someone's going to inspect your cell. You have any library books out still?"

House didn't understand. He just knew that he was being taken into a hallway he hadn't seen before. "One."

"Is it in your cell?" House nodded his head. "Good. We'll get it returned." They met another guard standing outside a door, which he then proceeded to unlock. "Have any other personal items besides underwear in your possession currently?"

"No."

"This is Darrell, your release officer. You're going to go inside with him. You'll find that the clothes you were brought in are on a table in the room. Strip off and put them on. Then Darrell will have you sign a few papers while I check your cell out. Librarian'll need to sign off that you've returned all items. That'll take a little time, which you can spend verifying that we have returned all possessions to you."

House listened carefully, but he didn't understand what was going on. The way this man was talking, it sounded like House was being sent home. But that couldn't possibly be the case. He hadn't been acquitted or convicted. He hadn't served his time.

Sensing his confusion, Darrell asked, "You understand what we're telling you?"

"I…." House blinked a little. "I know what you want me to do. I don't understand why."

What he thought they would tell him, he didn't know. All he knew was that it wasn't anywhere close to what _was_ said – "Charges were dropped."

"Guys, can you go inside so I can start –"

"Sure, Buck. No problem," the man named Darrell said before leading House into the sterile, white room. As promised, there were his belongings on a table in the room – his cell phone, his watch, his cane.

The prescription of Vicodin he'd had with him on the airplane.

House wanted it but hesitated. He wouldn't take it if he were going to be thrown back into his cell. He needed to know that this was really happening. As Darrell closed the door behind them, House asked, "You said the charges were dropped. Why?"

"I don't know. I just process who they tell me to. You were on the list. You'll have to ask someone else about that. You should get started. I don't think you want to spend any more time in here than necessary."

"No." Quietly House headed to the table and began to change, his eyes on the Vicodin.

He'd just managed to slide his pants on when Darrell offered, "I think your girlfriend's here to pick you up though. You –"

" _What_?" House didn't dare hope that he meant Cuddy. It was confusing enough that the charges had been dropped, unbelievable even. Part of him must have believed that this was a cruel joke, that this was a dream. Because he felt no relief, no happiness.

"I don't know," Darrell said with a shrug. "I could be wrong, but there was someone out there demanding that you be pushed to the top of the list for release, so to speak. Let's just say if she's _not_ your girlfriend, you'd want her to be."

It sounded like Cuddy, but House couldn't believe that she would be the one begging for him to be let out. As much as he wanted to think she might have forgiven him, that she might want him, he knew what such thinking would do to him when it turned out not to be true. Not willing to be destroyed again, he silently got dressed and did the things Buck had instructed.

"You have everything?" Darrell asked after what felt like only a few quick minutes.

House nodded his head and plucked a Vicodin from the plastic vial in his hands. Swallowing a chalky pill, he relished the bitter taste in his mouth. For a brief second, he allowed himself the pleasure of release, the freedom suddenly at his fingertips once more.

"Yes," he said confidently before being led out of the room.

Walking down the hallway as a free man, House felt his stomach turn sour. He knew it wasn't the Vicodin. Nervousness building inside, he suddenly thought he didn't know what to expect.

Would Cuddy be there?

Was it someone else?

Was _anyone_ there?

With each step he took, the questions became that much harder to ignore. But as much as he wanted an answer, he didn't. For the first time in a long time, truth terrified him. He didn't know what he would face outside the jail. All he knew was that if Cuddy wasn't waiting for him, it didn't matter.

Without her forgiveness, nothing mattered at all.

_To be continued_


	7. Tell Me Lies

_"True passion is not a wisp-light – it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the heart in which it has been enkindled to dust and ashes." – William Winter_

"Mommy!" Rachel squealed, running towards Cuddy as quickly as her chunky legs would allow her to move. Cuddy grunted in surprise as Rachel threw all of her weight against Cuddy's body and wrapped her arms around her.

Things with Julia had not gone well. Cuddy had left work early in the afternoon in the vain hope that she'd have a nice long conversation with her sister and their issues would be resolved. Since that hadn't happened, she'd come home long before Rachel needed to go to bed. As she reached down to pick Rachel up, she caught out of the corner of her eye a relieved Marina.

"She was as good as ever, I take it," Cuddy said dryly, giving Rachel a pat on the back.

Marina's recollection of the day was forgiving. She never outright stated when Rachel had misbehaved or what she'd done wrong. By now, Rachel's shortcomings had become quite clear. Unless something else happened or something changed, Marina didn't need to include the crying after Cuddy had left or the tantrums in her retelling of events. Cuddy would just assume those things had happened sometime between their trip to the farmer's market and the park.

"Well, I'll be going," Marina said after a few minutes.

As she grabbed her things, Cuddy told Rachel, "Say goodbye to Marina."

Rachel seemed a little too happy to say, "Goodbye!" But Marina didn't seem to mind. Then again, it was hard to discern any sadness when she looked so overwhelmingly happy to be leaving early.

When she'd left, Cuddy said to Rachel, "Were you nice to Marina today?" Rachel nodded her head. "I hope so, because you know I expect you to be a good little girl when I'm not here."

Rachel's cheeks turned pink in embarrassment, but she didn't confess to her crimes. She just muttered, "Sorry, Mama."

"It's okay. It's okay," Cuddy repeated, squeezing Rachel tightly. "How about you watch some TV while I go change?" Cuddy started to put her down, but Rachel whined and hung on as best she could. And though Cuddy knew she could force Rachel away from her, she didn't do that. She stood back up with Rachel holding on. "Rachel, nothing's going to happen. I'm right here. You don't need me to hold you all the time."

"No."

"Fine. You can come watch me change, but I am going to have to put you down."

"Okay," Rachel said reluctantly.

Carrying her down the hallway, Cuddy decided a distraction was in order. If she could get Rachel talking about her day, she wouldn't have time to realize she was no longer in her mother's arms. "Marina said you went to the farmer's market."

"Uh huh."

"What did you get?" Cuddy asked, gently setting Rachel on the bed and hoping she wouldn't notice.

Rachel thought hard. "Um… strawberries," she said with a smile.

"Yummy. I like strawberries."

"I like strawberries too. They is good."

The conversation was banal. After the day Cuddy had, she didn't exactly have her heart into discussing a trip to the farmer's market. But she knew she couldn't do anything with regard to House until Rachel was asleep. Cuddy's plans would require thought, uninterrupted thought, and that wouldn't happen as long as Rachel was awake. So while talking about strawberries was hardly interesting, she would do it.

Besides, it was effective. Rachel didn't cry or whine, which shouldn't have been the accomplishment that it felt like. But that was where they were, Cuddy thought sadly.

Not wanting to lose that, she asked Rachel, "Did you eat a lot?"

"No. Marina say we have to wash the berries first."

"Good," Cuddy said as she finished changing. "Maybe we'll make a pie before I start dinner. Come on." She gestured for Rachel to follow her, not that Rachel needed the encouragement. "Honey, don't hang on me," Cuddy said when Rachel started to grab onto her leg. "You can walk like a big girl."

Rachel had no choice but to listen, because Cuddy didn't slow down to give her a chance to latch on to her completely. And in the end, no matter how close Rachel wanted to be, watching Cuddy cook in the penthouse's kitchen bored Rachel to the point that she wandered off quickly to go play.

With Rachel out of the way, Cuddy had an opportunity to call Wilson. As the phone rang, she thought that this had been the most she'd called him ever. But since he was on sick leave, thanks to his wrist, she didn't have the same opportunities she normally would have to talk to him.

"Hey, Cuddy," he said, answering the phone shortly after it had begun to ring. "What's up?"

"Do you have a minute to talk?"

"Sure. Everything okay?"

She knew the answer to that question wasn't yes, but the truth wasn't going to slow down her [possibly disastrous] cooking. "Hold on. Let me put you on speakerphone." As an explanation, she said, "I'm trying to make a pie."

Wilson chuckled softly. "You know how to do that?"

"Sort of," she said, trying to roll out a piecrust that had already torn in two places. "As long as I don't kill Rachel, I'll consider this a success."

"I'm sure it's not that bad," he offered reassuringly. "You'll do fine."

"Yeah, we'll see. I didn't call to talk about pie," she confessed.

"I kind of figured that out."

The mood suddenly turning serious, she asked, "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay" was his flat response.

"Wilson."

After a moment of hesitation, he explained, "You're going through enough. It's not right for me to add my own –"

"Then I shouldn't talk to you about this either, if we're going by that logic."

"I don't want to make you sadder," Wilson said in a quiet voice. "You don't deserve that."

She felt her entire body relax, the tension oozing off of her as though it had been covering her skin. His sentiments weren't necessary, because she didn't want to be the only one in this friendship being comforted. She wanted to be able to do for him what it was he had tried to do for her. And yet she couldn't help but be touched by his concern. He was the only one right now who even tried to understand.

"That's very sweet," she said after a moment. "Thank you."

"You don't have to feel guilty. I have other people to talk to." Before she could say anything else, he offered up the information. "I've been seeing Sam again. Well, as of last night, I am anyway."

"Again?" she asked in surprise. "How did that happen?"

"She called me. My assistant became friends with her assistant. They talked about it, you know, about _House_ , and I guess her assistant told her. She called me. I… took the opportunity to blame House for the things that led to us breaking up and –"

"Was that really his fault?"

"… Not exactly," he said reluctantly. "Since our break up, I kept thinking that if I hadn't spent so much time listening to _him_ , I would have heard what she wanted from me, but I don't blame him. Still… you were right. I need something else to focus on, and I haven't gotten over her. I was with her before I met House, you know."

"I do know that."

"I don't want to be this way for the rest of my life, Cuddy. So… I said what I knew would work with her," he said simply.

"So if I tried to get House freed from jail, that would be a problem for you," she reasoned, getting to the point of her phone call.

He didn't hesitate to go along with the subject change. "I don't know. My reaction would depend on why you're doing it, because last I checked, you _didn't_ want him out of jail."

She carefully lifted the crust off the countertop and placed into the pie dish that had somehow been taken out of storage with the other, more essential, pieces of bakeware. Slipping the dough into the oven, she explained, "Wells visited me the other day."

"To tell you to press charges or –"

"No. Apparently, every argument I've ever made defending House has convinced the board that quietly firing House would be better than giving every adult in Princeton a ring side seat to his downfall."

"And you agree with them?" Wilson asked surprised.

She shook her head though he couldn't see it. Reaching into the fridge for the strawberries Marina and Rachel had purchased, Cuddy said, "I'd love to keep House in jail, no matter the personal cost, but that's not rational."

"You don't have to be. Not with this."

"No. I think I do," she disagreed, grabbing a knife from one of the drawers. "He doesn't deserve that kind of reaction. I don't want him in jail thinking he got to me or reading one day that my contract wasn't renewed and have him believe he had something to do with that." She began to chop the tops off of several strawberries, the white cutting board turning red and pink. "The only one who should suffer is House, and I think I can do that without the legal system in my way."

"Is this the part where you tell me you're going to need my help burying the body?" She laughed a little. It _did_ sound gruesome, dangerous, the way she was talking, but that wasn't what she was planning. Killing House might have seemed tempting, and yet she would never do that, no matter what he'd done. Obviously sensing that to be the case, Wilson sighed with relief. "Well, that's good to know. What do you need me to do?"

She paused, knife in mid-air. "Tell me you won't be angry if –"

"If you want him out, I'm okay with that. Might have to pretend that I'm not because of Sam. But it's your choice."

"Do you mean that?" she asked nervously.

" _Yes_." Then he backed off a little. "If you're bringing him back to work, I want to switch offices with someone else."

"Okay. I can do that." She wasn't sure who would be willing to switch, but she had enough cache to force the move on someone. "Then that's all I need for now."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Congratulations on getting back together with Sam."

It was hard for her to say it and mean it. She supposed some part of her _did_ mean it. Envy made that fact hard to recognize though.

After they hung up with another, she couldn't help but think it was so easy for him. He could want a girlfriend and with no effort at all, have one. Companionship was simple for him, because women weren't intimated by powerful men the way men were by powerful women. He obviously had trouble maintaining a relationship, but Wilson was a man who was only ever alone by choice. She couldn't even imagine what that was like.

_But_ , she thought, circling back around, if he was happy, she would be supportive of that. She wouldn't take over for House and make things more complicated for Wilson. Besides, if Wilson had Sam, he would be less likely to welcome House back into his life. What he'd told Sam ensured that befriending House would be a betrayal of _her_. That didn't guarantee that Wilson would stay away from House, of course, but it would at least make it harder for a friendship to grow.

And Cuddy wanted that.

Later that night, when she began considering what it was that she wanted to do with House, she understood what her plan needed to achieve. House's life needed to be completely controlled and devoid of the things he loved the most. She couldn't settle for simply firing him afterwards. If she did that, there would always be a chance that some other hospital administrator would pity him and hire him. Granted, that was an unlikely scenario, but Cuddy wasn't going to leave that to chance.

Not when it would be more painful for him to be at her mercy completely, to have everything good in his life gone or with far more strings attached than there'd been before.

The malice in her thoughts was jarring. Before, she would have never believed she could be so hateful toward someone she had once loved. She'd always known that House had made her more cynical, more ruthless even. He'd brought that side out of her. But even so, this seemed far from the days of trip wires and challenges to go without Vicodin.

This was intended to make him so unhappy that jail would look like a respite.

She had it in her to succeed too. That was the scary part of it all. Without much thinking, she knew exactly what it was he valued in life and how to take it away from him. And there would be no one to stop her from doing it either.

Wilson had a reason to stay away. The board, she would make sure, wouldn't interfere. Her sister would want prosecution, but Cuddy had with her the means to keep House free no matter what Julia preferred. Cuddy didn't want to overstate the strength of her argument and face defeat in the morning, and yet she _knew_ the police would listen to her. They wouldn't want to, of course. But she had it in her to make them.

She had no other choice. Success was a necessity.

That, however, didn't make it easy for her to sleep that night; knowing that in the morning House would be free, she couldn't rest comfortably. She guessed that shouldn't have been surprising. Her anger could blind her to a lot, but it couldn't erase the fear he had done such a good job at creating. For her own sake, she needed him out, but it made her wonder how much she could really do to him on her own. He had, after all, thought very little of destroying her home. What would he do when she started taking away the things he loved most in this world?

Cuddy realized it couldn't be a simple matter of revenge. It would become an arms race, and by default she would lose. She had more responsibilities than he would ever have, relationships she valued and needed to protect. He would threaten those things, and she would have to back down eventually. That was what would happen if she _solely_ wanted to hurt him.

So, she thought slowly, it had to be more than that. There had to be a reason for him to let her do what she wanted. At least there needed to be something beyond the initial guilt or gratitude he might feel toward her. Because at some point, he would believe he'd taken enough hits.

She needed him to believe such a thing could never happen.

Again, the answers came to her almost immediately. She hated him so much that hurting him was simple now. Part of her wanted to linger on that fact, because amazement of its truth was as close as she could get to regret. The rest of her, however, knew that without regret, there was no point in hesitating or reconsidering. It wouldn't change anything.

Even if it did, she didn't get a chance to consider the matter any further. Rachel was in the doorway, whining, "My tummy hurts."

It took a moment for Cuddy to react. To be as unfeeling as she needed to be with House required her to ignore the empathy she naturally had within her. And it wasn't easy to come back from that, to return to the mother Rachel needed immediately.

By the time she understood what Rachel had said, the little girl was right next to her. "Mommy," she whined.

Cuddy reached down and stroked her cheek. Rachel didn't feel warm. "What's wrong?"

"I don't feel good."

"Do you think you're going to be sick?" Rachel whined a little bit. "All right, come here," Cuddy said in a low voice, picking Rachel up and pulling her up onto the bed. "I think you ate too much pie."

"No."

"Lie down with me. On your side. I'll rub your belly," Cuddy offered.

Rachel listened, but she curled up so close to Cuddy that Cuddy had to scoot over a little so that she'd be able to touch Rachel's stomach. The slight moment made Rachel plead, "Don't."

"Sweetie, I'm not going anywhere. I just –"

"You go to work," she grumbled.

"Rachel," Cuddy said with a sigh. One hand moved to brush through Rachel's tangled hair, the other beginning to rub her stomach. "I wish I could spend all my time with you. I think I would be much happier with you all day. But Mommy has to work."

"No, you don't."

Cuddy shook her head. "I do. I have to, and some day when you're a big girl, you'll understand that."

Rachel just tried to clutch at her more. "Nooooo," she whined loudly.

"Shhh. It's late. You need to sleep," Cuddy said, attempting to soothe her. "And tomorrow I'll try to come home early again, and we can watch a movie or go to the park together."

Promises weren't enough. "Don't go," Rachel cried.

Cuddy told Rachel that she was right here, that she wasn't going anywhere, that even if she went to work, she would always – _always_ – come home. But Rachel had been exposed to too much. She had once come to believe that House would be a permanent part of their lives. Even though no one had ever told her that, she'd believed it anyway. And then he'd left without a goodbye, without an explanation that made any sense to her young mind. When she'd seen him again, she'd been so excited. Someone she'd missed had been standing right in front of her, and of course, she'd want to reclaim what she'd gotten so used to. But by then, things had changed between House and her mother. To see that hatred between them and then his arrest had been too much for Rachel to comprehend. Not only had she lost someone she cared about, but the security she'd once had was gone now as well. And there were no reassurances Cuddy could offer that would make it all okay for Rachel.

Because, as had been made all too perfectly clear to Cuddy herself, none of this would ever be _okay_ again.

* * *

The morning was more frantic than usual. It had taken a long time to console Rachel last night, leaving Cuddy tired and feeling behind. Admittedly, she _was_ actually behind. Extra responsibilities this morning meant that her entire day was askew. But at least Rachel was still asleep, giving Cuddy plenty of time to get ready.

She needed it too. For all of her machinations, looking gorgeous was a small but crucial part. Her argument wasn't one that could be bested, but she wouldn't leave that to chance. Superficial though it was, if she could distract with her body, she would. If it made the police less likely to question or attempt to guilt her, it was worth the extra effort. If it made House ache with the knowledge of what he could never have again, that was even better. And most of all, if it made Cuddy feel attractive and more powerful, then it could only help her get through this arduous day. It could only be a good thing.

But there was a fine line she needed to traverse. Her efforts couldn't be obvious or over the top. Dressed too sexy, she would seem either desperate or unapproachable. Either description would undermine the point in looking nice, and even if that weren't the case, she had no interest in going to work in clothing that made her look like someone House would pay for sex. Lucky for her, she had practice in walking that line between being sexy and being too much. Without lengthy consideration, she settled on a dark purple dress that had the perfect v-neck to show just enough cleavage to be interesting.

Rachel slept on, drooling on Cuddy's pillow, as Cuddy debated the merits of wearing a push-up bra. No, she thought after a moment, stuffing the bra back into the bureau provided by the hotel. She would look good in the push up, but it wasn't worth the comments the occasional clinic patient would offer her today when they saw her in it.

Settling for the demi cup she'd picked out, she carefully got dressed. Now more than ever, it was important that there was not a wrinkle in her dress, not a strand of hair curled out of place, not a single visible imperfection that would take away from the image she wanted to portray.

For a moment, Cuddy wondered why her bustling about hadn't awoken Rachel. But then the answer seemed obvious: it had been a difficult night for them both, and she was probably tired. Rachel had said she felt sick last night, but Cuddy suspected that that had been a ruse to get closer. Rachel probably felt fine. And if that were the case, Cuddy should have taken advantage of the quiet time she'd gotten up early to have.

Determined she quietly slipped out the bedroom. Her cell phone in hand, she dialed the number reserved for the phone her assistant would use if she had an assistant. It was too early for anyone to answer, but Cuddy was counting on that. Regina would be the one who checked the line when she first came in, and so she would be the one to hear, "Regina, I need you to schedule a meeting with Dr. Chase for later today – I'd say after lunch to be safe if that's at all possible. Wilson in oncology has asked that his office be moved. I don't know exactly where we're going to put him yet, but you should have his assistant get started in packing. And if you have any suggestions, that would be helpful. Thank you." She started to hang up the phone, then remembered, and hastily added, "And don't suggest that I hire an assistant."

The second she hung up, she was dialing another number. This time, she didn't know if someone would pick up. But since she was calling Sanford Wells, she didn't care.

"Dr. Cuddy," he said assertively after the third ring. "You're calling me early."

He sounded wide awake, so she didn't apologize. She doubted she would have apologized even if he had been sleeping. "I'll be out of my office this morning if you need me."

"I was about to go for my morning run. You felt the need to call me to tell me that?"

"I'm going to ensure the charges against House are dropped."

She could practically hear him smiling. "That's great to hear."

"Yes, I knew you would be pleased."

"You'll see this is good for the hospital, Lisa. You wouldn't want the scandal a trial creates." When she didn't say anything, he added, "Besides, you can fire him. In fact, you should –"

"No," Cuddy interrupted firmly. "I'll keep him from jail and protect the hospital from those repercussions. But what I do with House beyond that is _my_ choice, and considering what you've asked of me, I'm not requesting your support in this matter. You will give it to me without objection."

His response came slowly and with remarkable tentativeness. "Of course, I'll support you. What happens to him is… in your purview. Since he won't be convicted, I suppose you can keep him employed – although I'm not sure why you would want to."

"I have my reasons."

"Then… you have my support."

"Good," she said, hanging up the phone.

"Mommy," a voice behind her cried.

Dread building inside of her, Cuddy turned to see Rachel standing in the hallway and rubbing her eyes. Immediately, Cuddy mentally went over the conversation she'd just had. Had she mentioned House's name? Had she done it recently enough that Rachel could have heard her? Feeling caught, Cuddy didn't know whether or not Rachel knew anything.

"What's wrong?" Cuddy asked in an unnaturally high-pitched voice.

"I'm hungry."

Cuddy glanced at her watch. Marina wouldn't be here for another ten minutes.

"Okay. I'll make you something. Do you need to go potty first?" Rachel nodded her head. "Of course."

If Cuddy had hoped to feel attractive today, somehow being the person to hold her daughter's hand while she peed took away from that. On the other hand, Cuddy knew she didn't get weekday mornings where she could take care of Rachel often. As unpleasant as some of it might have been, this time together was something Cuddy couldn't help but enjoy.

"You slept in late," she said, rubbing Rachel's back. "I think maybe you're still sleepy. Why don't we go back to bed for –"

"No," Rachel exclaimed, leaning forward so she could hug her mother. She understood, even though it hadn't been stated, that if she went back to sleep, Cuddy wouldn't be there when she woke up. Surely though, Rachel knew that Cuddy would go to work either way. But she must have thought that if she were awake, if she were able to cry and complain about it enough, Cuddy would give in.

Eventually, Rachel would learn that no amount of histrionics would work, and she would stop. Cuddy wasn't sure what would be worse, walking away when her daughter cried for her or walking away to silence created from long-existing disappointment.

Cuddy tried not to think about that. Gently pushing Rachel back onto the toilet, she said, "Careful, honey. You need to stay on the potty while you use it." The last thing she needed was urine on her heels.

"I'm done."

"Good. You know what you have to do next." Rachel began to ball a huge mound of toilet paper to wipe herself with. "Rachel, you don't need that –"

Cuddy cut herself off. Rachel had already ripped off what she wanted to use, and there was no point now in correcting her. Cuddy just prayed she wouldn't need to call maintenance, because the toilet had become clogged.

When it became clear that the bathroom would survive Rachel, Cuddy washed both their hands and carried Rachel into the kitchen. "How about some eggs for breakfast? Does that sound good?"

It did, but just as Cuddy pulled the eggs out of the refrigerator, Marina entered the hotel room. The shift in Rachel's mood was immediate. She'd been a little cranky before but mostly quiet, _manageable_. The second she saw Marina though, screaming, she rushed to Cuddy.

"Mommy! Don't go!"

Exhausted of this particular morning habit, Cuddy picked Rachel up and hugged her closely. "You know I'm coming home later," she said in a voice that she hoped sounded more gentle than tired. But of course, Rachel was too busy throwing a fit to notice either way.

Marina asked loudly, "Has she eaten yet?" Cuddy shook her head. "I'll feed her. You don't want to be late."

This was Marina's way of saying that Cuddy could – _should_ – leave. Cuddy hated to go to work with Rachel like this, but she had to. She couldn't stay with Rachel for forever, and the longer she stayed, the worse this would get.

"Okay, Rachel," Cuddy told her in a tone that she forced to sound upbeat. "Mommy has to go to work."

"No," Rachel wailed.

"You stay here with Marina and play. I'll see you later."

Rachel kicked in the air as Cuddy handed her off to Marina. She screamed the entire time, cried for Cuddy, but both adults ignored her in the exchange.

And then Rachel couldn't be ignored any longer.

She bit Marina.

Marina was trying to adjust Rachel in her arms. One of her hands reached up to cradle Rachel's head close to her in an attempt to stop the little girl from flailing about. Her arm close to Rachel's mouth, Rachel took advantage of that and instantly bit down on the flesh of Marina's forearm.

To her credit, Marina remained calm, in control, even as Rachel continued to fight in her arms. But Cuddy couldn't be as collected. She had tried to be patient with Rachel who couldn't possibly understand why House was gone. This was too much though.

"Don't you _dare_ bite her, Rachel."

It wasn't what she said that got Rachel's attention. It was the tone she used, deadly and loud. Rachel had never experienced that before; if being raised by Arlene had taught Cuddy one thing, it was that she didn't need to shout or hit to be completely intimidating. No, Cuddy didn't want the same relationship with her daughter that she had had growing up – and still had – with her own mother. But it had guided Cuddy's choices as a parent… until now.

The sudden change in demeanor terrified Rachel. Whatever reaction she'd anticipated, it hadn't been the anger she received. Instantly regretful, she apologized, "I'm sorry." Then she turned to look at Marina. "Sorry."

Marina didn't say anything, deferring to Cuddy. Cuddy didn't hesitate to step in. "We don't bite people. Do you understand?" Rachel nodded her head emphatically. "Good."

Finally Marina said, "I can handle this if you need to leave."

Cuddy didn't want to say okay, but what other choice did she have? She had a few more phone calls to make, and she couldn't avoid going to the police station – not when she had a full day of work to do afterwards. Unless she wanted to stay at the hospital until the middle of the night, she really did need to get started now. But it felt wrong to leave Marina to essentially parent Rachel. Then again, Rachel had only bitten Marina to keep Cuddy at home. And Cuddy thought that if she stayed any longer than ordinary, Rachel would take from that that she'd gotten what she wanted by misbehaving.

"Okay," Cuddy said, realizing that she had to go. "I want a good report when I get home," she told Rachel who blushed in shame. As Cuddy reached for her briefcase, she said, "Thanks, Marina."

When she left the apartment, she thought it didn't matter how she was dressed.

She felt completely powerless.

But in that helplessness, she found the determination necessary to address the problem. If she'd been reluctant to take Rachel to a psychologist before, that hesitation was gone now. It was clear that something needed to be done. If Rachel were _biting_ her nanny, something had to change. And Cuddy accepted that this was beyond her control. She'd tried her best to ease Rachel's fears, to make things better for her. Yet Cuddy had failed.

Rachel's behavior wasn't going to improve on its own. It wouldn't. That happy, sweet little girl who didn't understand loss was gone.

House had destroyed her.

He was the one responsible for all of this… and she was about to have him released from prison.

Truth be told, it was almost enough to make her change her mind. No matter what she'd said to Sanford Wells, knowing what House had done to her daughter nearly had her drive to work and not to the police station handling her case. For Rachel alone, House deserved to spend the rest of his life in jail.

But Cuddy didn't alter her plans. If anything, this latest development erased all doubts she had about her behavior. She'd wondered what it would say about her, to make a man miserable so easily. Now she knew she didn't care.

He'd hurt her daughter, and Cuddy didn't care what it took to make him suffer after that.

* * *

She sat across from two detectives – Williams, the man who had actually handled her case, and Parker, the woman who'd been called in to talk Cuddy out of what she'd come here to do.

"You told Officer Soltes you wanted to press charges, Dr. Cuddy," Williams said in a tone that belied the beginnings of agitation he was desperate to hide.

Cuddy didn't deny it. "I did. I'd just watched my ex-boyfriend drive his car through my home. I was furious."

Parker leaned forward in a sympathetic manner that was equal parts earnest and calculated. "Then why don't you explain to us why you changed your mind, Lisa? Because I would like to understand why you'd like to have him set free."

"A few months ago, one of our doctors in research began testing a drug that would regenerate muscle growth after muscle death," Cuddy explained in simplistic terms as she reached into her briefcase and pulled Dr. Riggin's medical files out. Setting them on the table between Parker, Williams, and herself, Cuddy told them, "At first the study appeared to be successful. Muscle tissue was growing. Shortly afterwards, however, the mice begin to display lethargy in their movements. According to Dr. Riggin's notes, the researcher conducting these tests, he suspected the mice had trouble compensating with the new mass of tissue. Tests revealed, however, that the drug stimulated tumor growth, and the drug was deemed unsafe for further studying."

Cuddy gave them a moment to ask questions for clarification, but they seemed to be following her so far. "As you have probably become aware by now, years ago House had a blockage in his leg. A delay in treatment led to tissue death in his thigh. Amputation was recommended; he refused. We excised that part of the thigh and saved his life. But… the side effect of that procedure was, _is_ , pain. Constant pain."

"So what are you saying?" Williams asked. "He took some drug for rats?" Williams chuckled at the idea.

"That's exactly what I'm saying." She reached down into her bag and pulled out House's medical records.

"We can't look at that," Parker said when she noticed what this particular file was.

Cuddy wasn't deterred. "All it will do is confirm what I'm telling you, which you will want to do anyway, I'm sure. So if you want go through the steps of getting House's consent, which he will give you if he thinks he has a chance of being released, then by all means."

Williams didn't seem as concerned as Parker when it came to privacy violations. "Parker's new to the case," he lied, not realizing that Cuddy had already figured out why the woman was here. "We've already gotten access to his medical records. Based on the amount of Vicodin in his possession when we arrested him, we wanted to be sure that he had a legitimate reason for having that much."

"He does. House's recurring pain is only relieved through continual drug use. _Legal_ drug use, but Vicodin has serious side effects, which you will know by now he has had." A phantom of sympathy she once felt for the man in question passed through her. Her instinct was to fight the feeling, but in front of two detectives, she allowed the emotion to shine through. If she didn't make his actions seem understandable and worthy of pity, no one else would believe that.

"He heard that the trials were going well with the mice. I don't think I need to explain how dangerous and downright stupid it is to take a drug that has yet to be given even the most cursory of studies performed on it," Cuddy said matter of factly.

"Not to mention how _illegal_ it is," Williams pointed out. "Why weren't we informed of the theft?"

"Drug company knows what happened; they plan on reworking the formula eventually, and if the compound ever passes drug trials, they don't want it on record that their product once harmed a man."

"And the hospital?"

Cuddy shrugged. " House was desperate… and eventually as tumor ridden as the mice had been. He removed the first tumor himself. He tried to perform _surgery_ on his own body. In my mind, that more than punishes him for any theft he may have committed."

"You said the first tumor," Parker said then. "This is an ongoing problem?"

"There were three tumors discovered. House could only cut out the most shallow before he went into shock. A surgeon removed the remaining two. Afterwards, tests indicated, and we believed, that he would be fine."

"So… you want him released because you think he has more tumors or –"

"Dr. Riggin first noted a problem in the mice, because they were cramping and having trouble moving around. Although I initially believed House to be acting of his own accord, I now suspect that… he originally drove off in anger, then thought better of leaving James Wilson in front of my house, and when he returned to pick him up, like the mice, Greg House experienced cramping in his leg that left him unable to control the car that destroyed my home."

Parker reached forward and patted her hand. "Look, I know you want to believe that he couldn't have done something like that. You still love him and –"

"I really don't," Cuddy said flatly. "We broke up before the accident, because I didn't want to date him anymore. This isn't about love."

"If that's what happened," Williams interrupted in an equally bored tone. "Why did he flee the country? Why didn't he stay at the scene? Why hasn't he said _anything_ about any sort of cramp?"

Cuddy shrugged. "I can't say for sure, because I'm not him. But I would think it'd be understandable to have this… episode if you will and to fear that no would believe you."

"It _is_ rather unbelievable," Williams said plainly.

" _And_ ," Parker added. "Intent is only part of the equation. His behavior, intentional or not, is still…." She paused, changed her tactic. "Lisa, we understand this is hard, but what you're –"

"It's quite simple actually. You can go through the expense of a trial, and what do you have?" She gestured to herself. "A victim willing to defend the perpetrator. A –"

"There were other victims involved," Parker said.

"A broken wrist on a man who got hurt getting out of the way," Cuddy said dismissively. "A complete stranger and two family members who couldn't tell you anything about Greg House or what he's capable of. I'm the one you need, and you don't have me. More importantly, you don't have a criminal that people are going to want to convict."

"And you went to law school when exactly?" Williams asked.

"I don't need to be a lawyer to know that House is a pitiful person. All he has to do is walk five seconds in front of the jury, and no one will convict him, because they see a man with a cane – not someone who is capable of nearly killing five people."

That wasn't a lie. She'd thought she would be bullshitting her way through this whole exchange, but she realized at that moment that some people would ignore House's _malice_ no matter what. They didn't know him and in a court of law, wouldn't get to see that he was a complete jackass. They would only see the cane, the inherent sadness in him. They would forgive him, because they felt bad for him. And in doing so, they would justify everything he had done to her or worse… act as though it had never happened.

"A jury won't give you what you want," she said then. "I have no interest in going through a trial and having my life dissected for something that already has a foregone conclusion."

Detective Parker seemed to sense the increased honesty in the words. "If you're here because you're worried we can't get a conviction, let me assure you: we can. We will do our best to –"

"I don't want that." Cuddy sighed. "I've wanted to believe that he was as obviously guilty as I thought he was when he got out of that car. But…. rationally I know he's not."

Cuddy couldn't be sure if she'd had the desire effect on the two officers. She understood that it was part of their job to detect lies, to be unmoved by stories. Yet Cuddy thought, well, hoped anyway, that she'd been convincing enough. If she hadn't been, she didn't know what she would do.

Unfortunately, they didn't confirm or deny her success. Both detectives excused themselves, telling her to stay where she was, but they didn't give her any idea as to how this had gone.

She waited for at least a half hour, which she took as a good sign. If they had no interest in dropping the case, they wouldn't keep her here. They would remind her that she'd be subpoenaed to testify, and that would be the end of the conversation. Maybe they thought they could change her mind if they kept her in an interrogation room long enough. But even then… this was a considerable amount of time being spent _not_ talking to her. If they had planned to convince her of something, they weren't making good use of her limited time.

That seemed to be the case though, because five minutes later, a man walked in – a different man. He was clearly not a detective. His suit was too expensive, too well-fitted. It was possible he'd inherited the money necessary to afford such purchases, but she doubted he would be _here_ if that were the case.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, dark brown eyes flashing apology in her direction. As he closed the door behind him, she took in his appearance – noted above all else that he was attractive, almost indecently so. He was tall, though not as tall as House, muscular but thin. His hair was neatly cut short. His dark black curls were the same length as his goatee, which on him was appealing, not sleazy. And when he turned back around and smiled at her, she knew why she'd been asked to wait for him. Whoever he was, he was good enough looking to convince people of all sorts of things.

Cuddy refused to give into her baser instincts. But she knew she wouldn't mind watching this man try his best.

"I'm Malcolm Reinbeck," he told her, shaking her hand firmly.

"Lisa Cuddy."

"I've been the district attorney assigned to your case. Detectives Parker and Williams thought I might be able to convince you that I can get you a conviction." He sat down across from her and shook his head. "But I suspect this is the part where you break my heart."

"Is it?" she asked doubtfully. She leaned forward, letting the neckline of her dress slip down just a tiny bit. "I had no idea you cared so much about my case."

"I don't like to lose," he said, simplifying matters, taking in her appearance as much as she had his. "I don't think you do either, which is why you're afraid of taking this to trial."

"I'm not afraid. This is just the right thing to do."

"Okay." He sat back in the chair and relaxed.

However, Cuddy was suspicious of him giving in. It seemed too easy. "That's it?" she asked after a moment. "No speech about how you can get a conviction if I just take the stand against him?"

"Not at all. I know better than to try to convince a beautiful woman of something she doesn't want to do."

She smiled a little. "Smart man."

" _Selfish_ one," he corrected. "See, if I'm still handling your case, I can't ask you on a date."

She liked that he wasn't playing games, but at the same time, she couldn't be sure that this _wasn't_ the game – to pretend as though he liked her to ignite some passion for prosecution in her. And then, reading between the lines further, she had to ask, "Is that how this is going to work? I say yes, so you'll release –"

" _No_ ," he said hastily, bordering on horrified at the idea. "I can't convince you to see this through to the end, so I'll push the paperwork forward so the charges will be dropped. Independent of that, I'm not blind to your physical appearance."

"Thank you."

"I'd like to have dinner with you some time."

"You don't even know me."

He nodded his head. "That would be the point of going out on a date. But like I said, I know better than to try to convince a lady of something she doesn't want, so it's completely up to you."

"Okay," she told him before she could regret it. "Dinner."

The more reasonable side to her knew that a romance was not what she needed right now. It was hard to say what it was that she needed, but a boyfriend didn't seem like one of those things. But Malcolm was cute and interested in her and most importantly, _not_ House. It probably wouldn't lead to anything serious, because she wasn't ready for that. Still, there was no harm in having dinner with an attractive man.

It was the opposite really, she thought as she pulled a business card from her briefcase and handed it to Malcolm. This could only be a good thing. Given Rachel and House and everything else, it would be nice to spend an evening with an adult who wouldn't try to kill her at the end of the date.

No matter what, it would be nice to have something to look forward to.

* * *

She dreaded this moment, had since the second he'd ruined her home. Of course, right after House had done that, she hadn't imagined that his release would be welcomed by her, the product of her actions. But when he hadn't killed anyone, she had known that this day would come eventually.

And here she was now – living that moment she'd never wanted to happen.

Any enjoyment she'd gotten from being asked out on a date was gone. The self-assurance she'd had that this was the right course of action disappeared. Whatever she'd told herself to get herself to this point suddenly seemed inadequate when faced with the reality of picking House up from jail.

At that moment, she berated herself for insisting on it. She could have had him released and let him figure out a way to get home on his own. That would have been easier, probably smarter as well. But she'd told Malcolm, and everyone else, that she would be picking him up. No doubt they believed she was doing this to prove that she really thought House wasn't responsible for his actions. In truth however, she'd wanted to take the drive back to his apartment to explain in detail how his life was going to be from here on out. She wouldn't allow him to think he'd achieved any sort of freedom when he walked out of his jail.

Being here though… it was a lot harder than she imagined it would be.

Part of her wanted to turn and run, but she knew she couldn't. Thanks to her own behavior, she would have to come face to face with House eventually. She couldn't avoid this meeting forever.

But when he suddenly came through a heavily locked and guarded door and into the same room that she was in, she wanted to run.

It wasn't fear that she felt, not exactly. That would have been understandable, she thought, but she doubted he was dumb enough to do something to her in a room filled with armed policemen. It wasn't that she was afraid of being hurt.

It was just… a deep longing to be free of him and the unbidden knowledge that she probably never would be. Because even as part of her hated him, there was another part that couldn't help but notice how gaunt he'd become. In the last month and a half or so, he'd lost weight, muscle mass. He didn't look as though he'd been mistreated, but he was thinner and paler. His eyes were wild with disbelief and concern, and if there were fear in the room with them now, it was _his_.

His things bagged in a clear plastic bag, he held them tucked under the crook of one arm. His other hand grasped his cane and shook with each tentative step towards her. When he stopped in front of her, he said nothing. He just stood there in complete bewilderment.

"Do you have everything?" she asked unkindly. He nodded his head. "Let's go. I want to be able to go to work, and there's traffic."

He didn't say anything, which made her feel even more uneasy. Being with him at all made her uncomfortable. Seeing that he had… changed (she hesitated to say that) didn't help her feel any better. It should have. His newfound docility should have pleased her. Instead, she felt as though the rules had changed, things between them had shifted. She didn't know what had happened to make him think this was the best way to handle her, and she didn't care what the reason was. But the difference confused her anyway. She hoped it didn't show.

Turning away from him, she started to walk towards the door. She assumed he would follow her, and he did, slowly. Nevertheless, that fact sent a ripple of disappointment through her. Although she knew this had to happen, it wasn't easy to go through with it. She didn't think it would ever be.

That became particularly apparent when they stepped outside into the bright sun. Instantly House stopped moving. He couldn't keep walking, because he was too busy wincing in pain. When Cuddy turned around to see what the problem was, she understood automatically.

He probably hadn't been outside since he'd been arrested, and his eyes had trouble adjusting to the sudden rush of light and the overwhelming heat of summer. He cringed, trying to shield himself from the sun instinctively. And seeing him suffering, she felt her own instincts respond. She found herself wanting to help him, feeling bad for him.

It wasn't even a thought in her mind. There was no moment where she heard herself thinking that she should do something. The impulse was simply there. It was only when she felt her body begin to move toward him that she realized what she was doing.

Thankfully, she stopped herself before she'd taken that first step. Squashing whatever concern she might have had, she told him sternly, "Come on. Unless you want me to leave you here."

He followed, not having a choice in the matter. He kept his gaze cast on the ground though. An indication of submission would have been nice. This wasn't one however; it was just easier for him to see where he was going. And when he got into her car, it was clear that he didn't feel beholden to her at all. As he buckled his seatbelt, he asked, "So… what's the case?"

Her jaw clenched in irritation. Turning the ignition, she told him emotionlessly, "There's no case."

"I don't believe that. You're here. You're still pissed, so –"

"Can you blame me?" she snapped, backing out of the parking spot with her foot bearing down on the gas pedal harshly.

He stayed calm when he answered, "No. But you've left me in prison for I don't know how many weeks, and now you've suddenly changed your mind?" He shrugged. "Something's happened. And since it's obviously not that you've decided that you missed me, the only logical solution would be –"

"There's no case."

His fingers absentmindedly scratched at his beard, which had grown longer since he'd been in jail. "Then you either really do want me and have yet to admit that fact to –"

" _Don't_." She was practically snarling at him while she pulled onto the nearest and hopefully quickest highway that would take them back to Princeton. "The charges against you are dropped because of _me_ , and instead of being grateful, you think you have the right to talk to me like _that_?"

He looked out the window. At first she thought he felt guilty. But the truth was revealed quickly, because he told her, "Watch your speed. There's a cop car sitting in the –"

"Then stop making me want to drive over a cliff."

His way of doing that, it seemed, was shutting up altogether. In a perfect world, he would have apologized… although in such a place, _this_ would have never happened. But she was willing to accept an absence of antagonism as the I'm sorry he couldn't say.

She took advantage of the silence, or at least she wanted to. She'd gone over this moment in her head many times, what she would say, how she would say it. Over the last month, there had been a lot she wanted to tell him… _yell_ at him. But now, when it was time to actually let him know how the rest of his life would go, she was unsure where to start.

The need to get this right made her shy to open her mouth. She would only have one opportunity to make House's situation absolutely clear to him, and she didn't want to screw it up, because his presence unsettled her. Yet she knew that the longer she stayed silent, the more she would question herself, drive herself nuts considering and reconsidering what she wanted to say. So she decided to risk saying the wrong thing by forcing herself to speak up now instead; it was easier that way.

"The board felt that your _insanity_ would taint the hospital's reputation, and –"

"So they _made_ you –"

" _No_. And don't interrupt me again."

"Fine," he said with a shrug. "Continue."

He was snide – even now, after all she'd done for him. Perhaps that was a way of ignoring the debt he was in. She didn't know. Regardless she wanted to pull over on the side of the road and leave him where he was. He deserved as much.

But knowing that she had a lot to say, she ignored his response and kept going. "I agreed to drop the charges against you. You should know that they didn't force me to protect you. They don't care what I do with you as long as it doesn't scare donors off. In fact, they wanted me to _fire_ your ass."

"Then do it already," he challenged. "I don't need the speech. Just fire me."

"That's my point: I'm not firing you." She had to keep her attention on the road, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see his eyes widen in shock. She saw the way he nervously fidgeted in his seat. "I thought about it," she admitted. "But I know what you would want: anything to avoid facing what you did. Of course, you understand that no one will ever hire you again, but part of you would be relieved that you didn't have to face me every day. So I decided that there wasn't a chance in _Hell_ of that happening. You're not getting what you want."

He raised an eyebrow at her tone. "If that's true, what's to stop me from quitting?"

"You won't quit," she said knowingly. "That would indicate you felt bad about what you did, that you knew you were _guilty_. You can't even _thank me_ for dropping the charges against you. You're not going anywhere."

He didn't confirm or deny. He just asked, "So I just go back to work? Like nothing happened? That's it?"

"You're not that dumb. You know that's not it."

"Then what do you want?"

"Nothing I say is a request. If you don't do what you're told, if you break a single rule I have, you can spend the rest of your life bagging groceries for all I care," she warned. "So I would pay close attention."

When she was sure that she had his focus, she started to go down the list she'd created the night before. Every rule calculated to make his life just a little more miserable, to take away a privilege he'd once had, it had taken planning. But she knew it would be worth it in the end.

"For starters, you show up to work on time. Not when you feel like it, not when you plan on leaving an hour early. You come on time. If you're more than five minutes late, you're fired. You'll do ten hours of work in the clinic per week. That's not negotiable. If you don't show up, you're –"

"Fired. Right." He didn't seem surprised or even that upset by those changes. But then, they weren't that hard for him to follow. She fought the urge to smile, knowing how that would change.

"In your absence, I appointed Chase the new head of diagnostics. That won't change." House turned his head to look at her in surprise. He hadn't anticipated that. "You'll share the title for the time being until one of you makes a mistake. You'll share the team and cases. Any tests you want to do must be approved by him."

"You realize he'll just do whatever I say, right?"

"Doesn't matter," she said, shrugging, changing lanes. "It's an extra step for you, which I know you don't like. Speaking of, there will be times, of course, where you need _my_ approval for tests or treatments. _You_ will _not_ come to be directly," she ordered. " _Ever._ "

That confused him. "I don't understand. What do you –"

"If you need my approval, you send someone else. I don't want to talk to you."

He shook his head once. "That's stupid. What if whoever it is I send – _Taub_ – doesn't agree with me or they don't understand what –"

"Convince them," Cuddy said simply. "But don't come to me personally."

"Or what? You gonna fire me for trying to do my job? For being professional?"

"No." She grimaced. "I'll just refuse your request. Your patient will die."

"I don't believe that. You wouldn't do –"

"Try me," she said in all seriousness. "Given what you've done, I don't think it's asking too much that you allow me to pretend that you don't exist. I'm giving you your job. I gave you your freedom. The least you could do is never speak to me again after today. If you can't do that and your patients die, that's your fault – for not honoring my wishes."

House fell silent once more. She wasn't sure if she should take that as agreement or if he was shocked by how determined she was to never forgive him. She didn't care.

"I have boxes of paperwork from before your arrest that need to be taken care of. Before you treat any patients personally, it'll be your job to complete that paperwork. And you'll be expected to maintain your billings afterwards. You'll have time for that too," she explained, moving onto the next rule. "No more toys, instruments, or television in your office. Any item not directly related to work will be confiscated and not returned. No prostitutes, no porn. Your computer will be updated to prevent you from looking at any site that's not directly related to work."

He bristled. "What if –"

"No more free floating prescriptions of Vicodin," Cuddy said, ignoring his protest that surely would have amounted to an absurd possibility that would never actually happen. "Anything in your office was already confiscated. This afternoon, someone will be by your apartment to take whatever you have at home."

House reached into the plastic bag he had. Pills suddenly in hand, he popped one quickly. "You didn't see that."

"I don't care that you still do it. But you'll be given a reasonable dose. One prescription a month. You can go outside the hospital if you want more and risk being arrested. I would be cautious though; you'll be taking random but regular drug tests from now on."

"So you don't want to talk to me," House said slowly. "But you want to make sure I don't overdose. That's interesting."

She waved off his point with a hand. "Vicodin's something you like, so I'm limiting what you can have. It's that simple."

"Some would say it's proof that you care." He stared at her as though trying to see whether he could draw the Cuddy that loved him from within her. That person was dead though, and there was nothing House could do to bring her back to life.

"I don't care."

"I don't believe you."

"And I don't have to convince you. A few more things," she said, glossing over House's accusations. "No driving to work for six months."

He scoffed. " _Why_?"

"I told the police I thought you were suffering from side effects of Compound CS-804. You had cramping, and that's why you drove your car through my home."

She could tell he was impressed. "Thank you" was still impossible for him to say, but he seemed to find no flaw in her method of freeing him. If anything he clearly liked the reasoning.

Suddenly, softly he asked, "Why can't we act like that's what happened? I'm… I know I was wrong. I could have… killed you. But I didn't want to hurt you. That wasn't – it was a mistake," he said with conviction. The power in his voice quickly gave way to a plea. "I'm sorry. I really am, Cuddy. Can't we just treat this like it was an accident and –"

"It _wasn't_ an accident," she interrupted loudly. As traffic slowed to a stop, she reminded him, "You weren't injured. No matter how angry or _hurt_ ," she said mockingly. "You were, you could have driven away. If you cared about me at all, you _would have_. So no, I'm not going to pretend, for _your_ benefit, that –"

"Then why does it matter if I drive? Unless you actually _do_ suspect that –"

"Hardly. _But_ I don't think the police really bought my theory, and if I'm telling people that you couldn't control your muscles at the time of the crash, then your behavior needs to reflect that possibility. No driving."

"That doesn't make sense. If you're afraid someone will realize that you _lied_ to the police, then shouldn't _your_ behavior –"

"If my theory were correct, you would still be the idiot who stole an experimental drug and _used_ it. I'm pretty sure I'd still be angry."

He couldn't fight the logic in that. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't.

"So don't drive," she repeated. "And since I've already had to save your ass from the police more than once, get to know your wife. I won't spare you the wrath of I.N.S. if they discover what you're doing."

"How do you know I don't know her?"

"If you gave a damn about her, she wouldn't have come looking for you when you were arrested. I know it's not in your nature to think of other people, but if there was anything between you and her, she wouldn't have had to ask _me_ where you were."

He wasn't pleased by that development. The sour look on his face suggested he wasn't happy about that at all. "She wasn't supposed to bother you with –"

"We both know why you agreed to marry her, so please don't act like you wanted to protect me from that," she said with a sneer.

He couldn't deny that, so he tried to offer, "I'll divorce her if it means you'll –"

"No, you won't. She's innocent in –"

"She's defrauding the government and living off me for _free_ while she screws her boyfriend on the side. That's hardly innocent."

She shook her head. "I'd like to believe that. But I keep coming back to one question: how desperate did she have to be to marry _you_? Well… two questions actually, because I can see what she gets out of this sham of a marriage, but I wasn't sure what you get out of it. And then I realized exactly what _you_ would want from her. You're so disgusting; the answer is obvious."

"What is it that you think I –"

"Help her get her citizenship. Stop having sex with her. Stop using her to do your laundry and cook for you. It's not up for discussion."

"Who said we were having sex?" Since they were sitting in backed up traffic, she could glare at him as if to say that he shouldn't have bothered with that lie; she would never believe it. "Fine. I admit that that's about as believable as when you say you don't have feelings for me any –"

"I _don't_."

"But here you are, telling me who I can have sex with."

"Because it's not right –"

" _Right_?"

"You're using her," Cuddy told him. "I don't want you for myself, and I didn't have your charges dropped so you could go home and take advantage of –"

"Well now you're just projecting," he said casually. When she tried to explain why he was wrong, he added, "That's exactly what this is. She comes to see you, and you two bonded over how _mean_ I am, how _cruel_ I was to –"

"That's not what happened. Stop making this about my behavior and start reflecting on your own."

His response was quick. "But I understand my behavior, and yours is so much more –"

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she exclaimed, nearly screaming. Her hands shook on the steering wheel; her eyes cast longingly on the side of the road, as if an exit she could take would magically appear.

She thought she could handle it. She thought she could sit in a car with him and listen to him be completely unappreciative. When she'd imagined all of this, part of her had known that gratitude would be too much to expect. He couldn't accept that the person who had saved him was the same woman he could have killed. He couldn't reconcile that any more than she could get past the part where the man she'd loved had ruined her home. But she'd thought she could ignore him, that her hatred for him would get her through this conversation.

She was wrong.

"We are not having this conversation anymore," she declared. "You will do everything I've said. Additionally, and this is my last caveat for the time being, you'll be seeing a psychiatrist twice a week."

Cuddy thought he would go for the sarcastic remark. But perhaps afraid that she would kill him or dump him on the side of the road, he asked, "Nolan?"

"Considering your behavior since being treated by him, I'm not sure he's up to the task of fixing you. No, I've set up an appointment for you for tomorrow morning at ten with Audrey Jenkins." He didn't seem to recognize the name. "Her office is right next to the public library. Like I said, you'll be seeing her twice a week. She's agreed to keep me updated on your progress, meaning if you don't show up, if you show up late, if you refuse to participate in therapy, if you leave because of a patient, she'll let me know."

He rolled his eyes. "Nothing makes a person open up faster to a shrink than knowing your boss is going to hear about it, right?"

"She won't tell me what you say. The less I know about what goes on in your diseased mind, the happier I will be."

"Well that's a _relief_."

"This is the way things are, House. You can either accept that, or you can leave Princeton forever and never come back. It's your choice."

"Are you done?"

"Yes."

He didn't say anything then. Whether the decision was clear for him or not, he gave no indication. She could only assume she had his cooperation. The alternative for him was unthinkable. No matter how much he hated every requirement, it would be better than to be jobless, to never see Wilson again… or her, she supposed. She wasn't sure House counted her as a reason to stay, not anymore.

Cuddy didn't ask for clarification however. He was busy leaning his seat back and closing his eyes. And she thought that if he wanted to take a nap or even just pretend to take one, she was okay with that. It was better than having to listen to him talk.

She wasn't prepared for the quiet though. Traffic was still backed up for as far as she could see. She'd decided there must have been an accident somewhere along the highway, and it must have been bad enough if she was driving under twenty miles per hour. That alone didn't bother her much. But being stuck in a car with House, who quickly fell asleep beside her, was… disturbing.

In truth, fighting would have been easier. He would say stupid things, and she would hate him, and that was a dynamic she could handle well enough. Now that he was asleep though, she was left with… the sight of him looking so peaceful, _innocent_.

The thought made her feel ill, the betrayal of her own mind far worse than anything House had done. But there was no wiping away the idea completely; when she looked at him, she could see the things she had once loved in him. She remembered the nights they'd slept together, the mornings she'd woken up, curled into him, his face just as serene then as it was now. Here she was trying to snuff out any trace of a relationship between them, creating rules to keep him out of her life. The past would always exist though. He would always have that part of her, no matter how he proceeded. And she might have hated him, might have wanted him to be in jail, but there was another part that longed to reach out to him. To run a hand along the side of his face, aged with sadness, would have been so wrong.

But part of her wanted it anyway.

Hands gripping the steering wheel tightly (there would be _no_ contact between his body and hers), she forced herself to drive on.

_To be continued_


	8. Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: This is an AU set after "Moving On," so it's not season 8 compliant. Also, for those who are sensitive to Dominika, she does make a short appearance in this chapter.

The weight of his guilt made moving impossible. Sleep came and went in quick intervals that bled together, but he was never given the escape unconsciousness would provide normally. Somehow his mind remained aware of the woman next to him and her anger. He could feel her occasional glare, sensed when she was surely telling herself that the personal price she would pay for this choice wasn't worth it. How nice it would have been to be able to look over at her and reassure her that he would repay her, that he wouldn't put her in the position of regretting her decision. He longed for that but knew that he had already shown he hadn't earned the reprieve.

He couldn't even thank her.

The sentiment seemed like it should have been within his reach. She'd saved him. From what he couldn't summarize. Realistically speaking, he would have been denied the chance to beat the crap out of Gene like he wanted to. Whether the guards would have broken the fight up on their own or not was unclear, but House doubted he would have had much of an opportunity to overpower him. If for no other reason than Gene didn't have a bum leg, the fight would go in his favor. What would happen after that was anyone's guess, and House preferred not to. In fact, he couldn't think about it, not in any real way, not now. Yet the darkness preoccupied him, left him taciturn and intensely unprepared for the change in Cuddy's demeanor. And while thanking her should have been the easiest thing to do, he couldn't allow himself to feel gratitude or anything that could be construed as positive. There was too much risk in giving into any emotion. So he closed his eyes and hoped to be home soon.

At times he couldn't be sure if he were awake or dreaming. Occasionally he'd hear the fleshy sound of her palms against the steering wheel, quiet proof that he was conscious. But then that would fade away into something that felt less real – images of Gene and jail and a distinct unpleasantness that seemed to have no source. Dread snaked through House, but he couldn't understand why. He didn't want to know, and his mind flitted elsewhere.

When the car came to a halt a short time later, he realized he must have been asleep a little, for her cold command – "Get up" – startled him.

He blinked tiredly. Much to his surprise, they were outside of his apartment. He did as he was told as fast as his aching muscles would allow. After he'd managed to shakily stand, his weight heavily leaning on the cane, his hand reached for the small bag of possessions he'd had on him. Under her hateful gaze, his feeble actions felt embarrassing, and all he wanted to do was slink away without comment. He'd made things between them so bad that there was no point in even trying to talk to her.

But for some reason, she suddenly felt the need to say quite a lot. Abruptly she got out of the car with him. He didn't ask what she was doing. Questioning her would be a provocation, and that was the last thing she needed. It felt strange to choose silence over instigation, but if he had any hope of moving past this, what other choice did he have?

She could read the query in his eyes anyway. "Just want to make sure you get inside okay," she told him with a sneer, the remark punctuated by her car door being slammed shut. The way she said it made it seem far more likely that she was going to murder him in his apartment.

"Fine." He decided to welcome the end, should she wish to give him one.

He wasn't that lucky, obviously. When they got inside his place, there wasn't even Dominika to distract them from the memories this apartment contained. Cuddy had said she'd loved him here first. He'd betrayed her here, and she'd dumped him, broken him, _saved_ him in this place as well. In his head, they'd spent most of their relationship in her house, but that didn't spare them the reminders of the milestones contained within these walls.

The heavy silence that descended upon them was cliché, yes, but it held them captive nonetheless. He had an urge to say something… but he didn't know what to tell her. The only thing he wanted was for all of this to go away. Whether he should accomplish this through hating her or trying to earn her forgiveness was impossible to decide when he had no energy to consider the matter with a clear head.

Cuddy had no such ambivalence. She clearly wanted to despise him, although that wasn't even putting it properly, because there was no _yearning_ on her part to do so. She hated him now without any effort necessary. So for her then, it wasn't difficult to push past the awkwardness and speak.

"You should know I've started to see someone else," she announced.

He would have liked to say that he couldn't understand why she wanted him to know this. But her desire to wound was only as obvious as her success in doing so by telling him.

"Same guy that was touching you before?" He didn't want to know, but curiosity came instinctually to him.

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know. You're the one who brought it up," he said pointedly.

That made her smirk. "And you think… what exactly? That I'm doing this to make you jealous?"

"I think –"

"Well, you're wrong," she interrupted, apparently not caring what he thought. "I told you because the last time you saw me with another man, we both know what happened. So for my family's safety, I –"

"You didn't have to do that." He said that, knowing that it wasn't true.

She was sarcastic, bordering on distraught, when she said, "Because you would never hurt me."

He started to say, "I didn't mean to," but stopped himself from completing the thought. She didn't care about that. She didn't care about anything he had to say, and maybe she hadn't ever. When he'd used Vicodin, had she given him a chance to explain? To defend himself? To apologize? Of course not. She'd just broken up with him as though she'd been waiting for an opportunity to reject him, like it didn't matter what his reasoning was, because she had already made up her mind.

The thought filled him with… _not_ rage, but something that seemed like a close approximation to that. He wouldn't do anything to her, because the feeling was tempered with the overwhelming love he had for her. Truth be told, he didn't understand it. How he could love and hate the same person so intensely was beyond his comprehension. In this instance, however, the latter won out.

"Yeah, I get it, Cuddy," he said with equal facetiousness. "I was horrible and never good enough for you, and I should be punished every way imaginable for it. You can go now."

Moments ago, she might have looked like she was desperate to inch her way toward the door. In telling her she could leave, he had somehow made her want to stay. She stood firm, arms folding across her chest.

"Oh I see. You've decided to cope with what you've done by convincing yourself that you're the victim here. How horrible I am for daring to want a man who –"

"That's just it. I'll forgive you for anything, and you don't care. I'd do anything for you, and it doesn't matter to you."

He didn't care how pathetic he sounded – _was_. In that instant, his anger was gone completely, the frustration, the guilt, the sense of betrayal all _gone_ , and what was left was the same painful desire he had for her. All he wanted was _her_ , her forgiveness, her _understanding_.

His eyes trained on her, he could see that she wasn't unmoved entirely. She seemed softer, _sadder_ than she had before. But there was still a long distance between that and forgiving him, and she made that clear immediately.

"That's the problem, House. You'll do _anything_." Her mouth curved downward in a deep frown that she eventually erased with a sigh. "I should go."

He didn't want that. He reached out to grab her hand but stopped himself from taking it. Touching her was verboten now and would continue to be until she changed her mind about him. For the time being, he had to settle for saying, "Wait."

She shook her head. "No, we don't have anything left to discuss."

"But –"

"You know the rules. That's all that needs to be said." She didn't give him a chance to argue. She just told him sternly, "Good bye." Before he'd even opened his mouth, she'd turned and left.

For the first time in a long time, he was alone once more.

* * *

She felt oddly empty after she left. Explaining to him how the rest of their lives would go was difficult, but the second she stepped outside of his apartment, she was devoid of any notable emotion. There was no regret, no sadness, no anger. There wasn't even relief. Cuddy supposed it could be worse than being totally numb. Really, it was probably to her advantage that she felt nothing. It would make returning to work easier at least.

An hour later though, it didn't feel like she was getting a break. News of House's return seemed to have spread in her absence. The second she'd sat down at her desk after freeing House, she'd come face to face with a bombardment of emails from various doctors and hospital lawyers explaining to her why their offices couldn't be switched with Wilson's.

"What did you do?" she asked Regina when Regina brought her a salad and bottle of water from the cafeteria. "Ask _everyone_ if they'd be willing to change offices?"

"Pretty much, yeah." She was unapologetic. "They were gonna have to be asked eventually either way. I thought it would be better if you weren't here when everyone learned House was coming back."

Referring only to the food Regina put on her desk, Cuddy said, "Thank you. Unfortunately, they've found a way to complain anyway. Did you at least find someone willing to –"

"Of course not. Who would volunteer for _that_?"

It wasn't lost on Cuddy that she herself had willingly subjected herself to him, and for nearly a year at that. Everyone else had seen what was wrong with him and avoided him. She had been the exception, the one to happily get closer when she should have stayed away. But there was nothing to do about that now. It was over; she was safe.

She sighed but recovered enough to make a quick decision. "Ron Simpson can make the switch." If he'd hesitated to fire House, then dear Ron could deal with the fallout.

Regina seemed less convinced that this was a good idea. "You sure you wanna do that?"

"Yes."

"He's a board member."

"Are you scared to tell him his office is –"

"No. _No_." Cuddy had been joking, but Regina was borderline stern with her denial. "I'm not afraid. But I'm also aware of the likelihood of someone's ego being bruised, and I'm not gonna be the one who bears the brunt of that."

"Would you like it in writing?" Cuddy asked in a manner that sounded nearer to tart than teasing. She didn't give Regina time to answer. "If Ron has something to say about the switch, you can send him here, all right?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll call janitorial and let them know -"

"That'd be great. Thank you."

Regina turned to go but stopped after the first few steps. Facing Cuddy once more, she pointed out, "Dr. Chase is here. You want me to send him in?"

"Please do."

Cuddy longed to be able to say the opposite, truth be told. Everyone knew House was coming back, but this would be the first and surely not the last time someone on her staff questioned her about him. This would be the beginning. And all she felt at that moment was that she wasn't ready to defend this choice. She felt forced into bringing House back into the fold, but now she would have to present it as a decision she'd made autonomously. She would not let anyone think she'd been pressured into anything. Yet when Chase came into her office, she didn't know how to justify herself.

"You're letting him come back?" he asked petulantly, hands stiffly at his side as though he was afraid of being likened to a child.

She gestured to the chair opposite her desk. "Sit down." Politely he did while she unsnapped the plastic lid to her salad. "I see you've heard the news."

"Of course. But in typical Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital behavior, no one can tell me what that means for the diagnostics department." He didn't ask if he'd been replaced. His faith in House's intelligence made the answer to that question obvious, which she supposed was why he assumed he had been. "Look, I know it wasn't exactly official yet, and you have every right to run the hospital as you see fit. But you didn't even give me a chance to –"

"You're still going to be the head of diagnostics," Cuddy said flatly. She wasn't in a good mood and had no interest in comforting him. But the boyish smile he offered in relief made it impossible to be frustrated with him afterwards. Unlike with House, the youthfulness Chase had made him likable. "House will retain his title for the time being. The less changes we make, the less traction this story has in the news."

He nodded his head. "Okay, so we're keeping this quiet." He said the words out loud, but it was more for his own benefit than hers.

"You'll be in charge of the department. Unfortunately for you, given how this little development might affect our donations, you'll have to share a team. I doubt the budget committee will sign off on any new diagnostics fellows. However, you'll have final say on everything."

"Does House know that?"

"House is aware and in agreement of the specific set of rules he must follow if he wants his return to be permanent."

Chase looked like he didn't want to know, and Cuddy had no intention of telling him.

"Well," he said hesitantly. "That all sounds good, but... you _are_ aware that we have a slight problem then, yeah?"

"What problem would that be?"

"Thirteen. She's on probation. She can't exactly work with House, can she? I mean... I guess technically he's not a convict but close enough."

"Okay."

"Okay?" he asked, confused.

Cuddy just shrugged. "If she feels that her job is in conflict with her legal status, then she should resign."

He didn't like the simplicity of her solution. She could tell as much. "That's it?"

"What other solution is there? House is staying. Either they work together, or she finds another hospital to work at."

"She's a good doctor," Chase insisted though not firmly.

Cuddy wouldn't deny his argument. "She _is_ good _._ When she's here, I would agree with you. Unfortunately, she has a tendency of _not_ being here. Although I would like to keep her, I have to consider which employee would benefit the hospital the most." Mentally she struggled to admit the next part, but it came out smoothly enough. "House works more. His name means more. In a comparison, he wins."

She held Chase's attention throughout the explanation. No sooner had she stopped talking though that he asked carefully, "Is this about getting back together with him or –"

"Excuse me?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

Her displeasure left him cowering instantly. "I'm sorry I –"

"This isn't personal, but it is simple. House has more value to the hospital. If there's a conflict, Thirteen has to go."

He didn't like her answer. But when he slinked away a few minutes later, Cuddy realized she didn't like it either. There was nothing to be done about it however. Tomorrow morning House would be here. How that affected Thirteen was a concern Cuddy didn't have the energy for.

An hour later, Thirteen hadn't turned in a resignation. The diagnostics department was thankfully silent. Regina hadn't come back to complain about Ron, and Ron hadn't said anything either. All things considered, Cuddy felt that the day was going by with a modicum of ease. Given that she'd seen House earlier in the day, it wasn't as bad as she would have thought it would be. Not that that was saying much.

House was coming back into her life. She'd set limits, but he would be in the hospital tomorrow. He'd be _here_ , breathing the same air, passing through the same corridors. Today was all right, but she recognized that she was merely luxuriating in the last moments she would have free of him.

Immediately she regretted what she'd done – dropping the charges, agreeing to give House his job back, telling him about Malcolm before she'd even been on a date, agreeing to even _go_ on a date when she wasn't ready.

Protectively her thoughts swayed from House and toward Malcolm. He seemed different than the men she was normally attracted to. He seemed smooth but not manipulative, put together… not at all like House or Lucas or many of the men that had come before them. She'd never been interested in "bad boys," per se. But looking back, she could see that they'd mostly been rough around the edges in some way, outliers of some sort. She'd known that going in, and that made those men completely unlike Malcolm.

Malcolm, who seemed normal enough and whom she knew absolutely nothing about, she corrected.

The secrets he might have seemed endless to her at that moment. She hadn't thought House was perfect, but he had been capable of so much she'd never even considered possible. Malcolm seemed sweet by comparison, but that didn't mean there wasn't something hiding underneath.

There seemed to be too many ways in which he could hurt her. As attractive as he was, she hoped he wouldn't call her. He'd been obviously interested when they'd first met, but she hoped that he would change his mind. A new man in her life was probably the last thing she needed right now.

Naturally she wasn't that lucky. If she wanted no communication, of course he would keep his word. And he did, calling her not twenty minutes after she'd come to the conclusion that she should ignore any advances he might make. Since she didn't recognize the number, foolishly she took the call on her cell when the phone rang. The second she heard his voice, she regretted answering.

Through her cringing, she heard him say, "Hi, Lisa. It's Malcolm."

"Oh," she uttered breathlessly. "I – what can I do for you?" She sounded out of character with how nervous and awkward the words came out.

She wasn't surprised that he picked up on it. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she lied, shaking her head. "It's just been a busy morning. I guess I'm a little distracted." She changed the subject. "How are you?"

There was no way she sounded convincing, but he was kind enough to pretend as though she was. "I'm all right actually. I just have a few minutes to myself, so I thought I'd check up and see how you were doing. But if you can't talk right now –"

"No, it's fine. Really. If I weren't talking to you, I'd be dealing with my staff complaining."

"About Dr. House or just in general?" He wasn't being intentionally intrusive, but it felt like he was encroaching upon something that wasn't his business anyway. Before she could respond, he asked, "Is that weird for me to ask?"

She couldn't help but smile a little, one of her palms briefly pressing against her face to hide the expression. He was being kind, considerate, and it felt nice, even though this really wasn't something she wanted to talk about. "It's… yes, a little."

"I'm sure this whole day has been, shall we say, unconventional." Before she could agree with him, he told her, "I feel like I should tell you that I know you were the one who picked up Greg House from prison."

She instantly felt defensive. "I wasn't keeping it a secret, and I didn't realize it was a problem."

"Hey, hold on now. I'm not judging you. It's just that..." He fell silent briefly before saying simply, "The truth is we both know there was no medical condition or whatever that made House behave the way he did."

"I'm not testifying against him."

"I'm not asking you to. Besides, there'd be no point now; with the case dropped, even if you had changed your mind, I couldn't do anything about it."

"Then what does it matter if I drove him home?"

"This is awkward," he muttered with a sigh. "Listen, I'm not trying to pry or anything like that. Okay? But when we were talking earlier, I thought you were digging my vibe. But if all this has happened so that you can get back together with _him_ , all I'm saying is I'd rather know now."

The choices he was presenting her with were in truth not the only ones available to her. She was aware that, more than anything, right now, she should choose the path of solitude. Dating House had been such a miscalculation on her part, possibly even proof that she had been so desperate for a partner that she had been willing to overlook the red flags all around him. In that light, being alone was the only real option to her. And yet… to forgo a relationship with a decent man because of House seemed so much like being beaten. It would be giving him everything he had hoped to achieve when he drove his car through her home. She wouldn't give him that.

She couldn't.

But then again, the very idea of dating someone, opening herself up to someone she didn't know, made her nervous. And she knew that she wasn't ready, even as she wanted to be.

"I have no interest in House," she asserted firmly. "I have my reasons for wanting him out of prison, but it's not because of some screwed up notion that he loves me or that I still love him." Malcolm didn't say anything, just stayed quiet, forcing her to admit, "I'm just not sure that I'm ready to date again."

He sounded almost cheerful. "Okay. That's cool."

"Don't sound so relieved."

"Believe me, I'm not. However, if you're not ready, then I have to respect that, don't I?" It was a rhetorical question. "I'm not gonna try to convince you that dating me is a good idea. That'd just make me look pathetic and over eager, and I'd chase you away."

She sighed. "Probably, yeah."

"So I'll back off."

Her stomach twisted at the thought. The less he was interested in her, the more she wanted him to be, it seemed. She started to say that he didn't have to do that, but he wouldn't hear of it.

"I'm sure you're used to having someone _push_ you into this type of situation, but that's not me. I think you should take all the time you need to move on." Before she could contradict him or offer an apology for leading him on, he offered, "If I call you in a couple of weeks to see if you're ready, would that be all right?"

"Of course."

"Then that's what I'll do."

It was promising enough. She hadn't driven him away completely, which was more than she could have ever hoped for at this point. That he had any interest in her, given what he knew about _House_ , was more than she deserved.

She just hoped that when he called in a few weeks, _if_ he called, she would be ready. She would be able to want him.

Because she certainly didn't want House, or to be beholden to him, any longer.

* * *

He was alone. For the first time in weeks, he was finally _alone_. There was no Gene, no guards to watch over him. No _wife_ , although she'd probably, unfortunately return eventually.

Obviously she would have to come back. He hadn't forgotten the conditions Cuddy had given him. But for the time being, House would relish being all by himself.

The bag of meager possessions he'd brought to jail was tossed aside and forgotten. As he made his way down the hallway toward the bathroom, his rumpled, dirty clothes followed suit. Piece by piece fell to the ground. When he was left in his underwear, he began to run a hot bath for himself.

He was sure Cuddy had hoped to leave him feeling as though the rest of his days would be miserable. But she hadn't factored in the whole _prison_ thing. Unhappiness would eventually set in. He wasn't foolish to think otherwise. Right now however, he was content to have his freedom.

The feeling didn't last. For the briefest of moments, when he sunk down into the hot water, a sense of ease washed over him. Relief slipped across his features before dissolving in the tub, disappearing. Once the feeling was gone, he couldn't seem to get it back, no matter how he tried.

The rest of his life seemed too clear to him then. Of all her demands, he couldn't even acknowledge the ones he could handle. All he could focus on were the ones he had no desire to bear.

How was he supposed to live without Cuddy? How could he do his job without her, without being able to _talk_ to her? And what about Wilson? She hadn't forbidden contact with him expressly, but House knew that without her approval, he would never have Wilson back in his life. They would band together, support one another, and completely shut House out of the equation. He'd been the inspiration for that friendship, but really what it came down to was that they commiserated together. House knew it would be easy for them to get rid of him and find something else to center their friendship on. Even if that weren't the case, Wilson would still hate him.

How could anyone ever feel any differently?

After what House had done, what else besides hatred was left for him?

Without her forgiveness, there could be no redemption. If she'd been angry enough to let him go to prison, he would have had her hatred to justify retroactively his actions. She'd given him just enough to keep him in her debt.

With startling clarity, he understood at that moment that any freedom he thought he'd had was gone. He wasn't in jail, but she had full control over him. If she decided he'd broken her rules, he was _done_. Professionally and otherwise. At first glance, it would seem like a better alternative than prison; he'd been grateful when she'd picked him up, after all. But a warden could be fair. Cuddy would not allow herself to be.

He sighed and rubbed his cheek with a wet hand. She was in such a dark place now, all of her worst qualities trained on him. She needed someone to pull her out of that space, but what could he do, besides wait her out? He wouldn't be able to get close enough to fix things himself. And though he had the instinct to _want_ to make her happy once more, he understood that self-preservation was of greater importance at this moment. She wanted nothing to do with him; it would be dangerous for him not to listen to her.

Besides, what could he do, really? Even if she were open to forgiving him, how was he supposed to make _that_ happen?

His mind yearned for answers, a solution to make everything go back to the way it was… before.

It was hopeless.

Despair would have overpowered him then, but it didn't have a chance to. The bathroom door being shoved open caught his attention.

As he waited for a fraction of a second to see who it was, his mood lifted at the possibility of Cuddy returning.

Instead, it was his _wife_.

Dominika looked no happier to see him than Cuddy had. Her features were narrowed on him, almost hawk-like. She was red in the face, and if she weren't so visibly disgusted by his nude body, House assumed she would have attacked him.

"You!" she exclaimed, sounding so frustrated that she couldn't even complete the sentence with one breath. "Fuck for brain! What is wrong with you?"

He wasn't in the mood for her anger. Out of everyone who had been affected by his choices, she was the last person he felt like apologizing to. "Hi, sweetie," he said sarcastically. "Nice to see you –"

"Shut up!" She was fuming, her shoulders bobbing up and down with each deep inhale and ragged exhale she made. "You don't – you are idiot." He didn't care to fight back or even comment. It would probably be easier to stay quiet and let her vent, so that was what he did. "We marry, and you say you get me card. But you go to jail? Now, I never get my –"

"Relax. You'll get your citizenship." It had been one of Cuddy's demands, and while it was the one he cared about the least, he had no interest in screwing up his life over this pathetic caveat.

"How?" Dominika demanded, the question coming out as forcefully as it did anguished. "They know. They will know. I..." Her voice trailed off. When he looked at her carefully, he didn't see any tears. But the look in her eyes told him that she was almost there, that if she trusted him, she would be.

"I wasn't convicted of anything." A half-hearted defense at best, he could admit to himself. "Cuddy –" Dominika scoffed at the mention of her name. He ignored the implications of what that meant. "She got the charges against me dropped. She's convinced the police there was something medically wrong with –"

"There is! You are _crazy_."

"Yeah, well, either way, it's fine. When I.N.S. comes, they'll bring it up. But it was officially an accident, which means I can keep pretending to be in love with you."

"Lucky me," she snarled before slamming the bathroom door shut.

House stayed in the now lukewarm water for some time afterward. His fingers were beginning to prune, but the idea of going out into the apartment and facing Dominika's wrath some more was the last thing he wanted. He already had to deal with Cuddy's. Now he had to try to appease a woman who he didn't even care about? He didn't like that. Of course, as per Cuddy's _rules_ , he would have to do what was necessary to make things right with Dominika. And maybe... since he had brought the woman into this mess to begin with as part of some stupid plan to get Cuddy back by making her jealous, he owed it to her anyway. For all Dominika had put up with, he guessed that she had earned the citizenship she wanted.

It was odd though. As beholden as he should be, it was a feeling he could tell he was forcing himself to have. In truth, he didn't care about her at all. At best, he was hoping that being a man of his word would make Cuddy happy. That was all there was to it.

That didn't scare him – much. But it did make him wonder just how terrible he really was. He should feel something for Dominika. Not love of course, but she had cleaned and cooked for him for a while now. She'd agreed to be part of a plan. Granted, it hadn't worked, but she'd been willing to do something for him when he'd needed someone to help him get Cuddy back. That should have earned some semblance of loyalty from him, some friendship. He thought he should have cared about her wellbeing just a little big. The truth was, however, he didn't care at all. And when he tried to figure out what that meant, he could only believe it meant that he was an awful person.

He'd been to therapy before; he'd gone off the Vicodin, and supposedly, he'd changed. In his head, that time at the mental institution had led him to a better place, something less dark. It had allowed him to have Cuddy in his life, and that love had transformed him, consumed him.

But that was a lie now. He could see that. If not for the way he had treated Cuddy, how little he cared for Dominika was proof. He was selfish and cruel, unfeeling and desperate. Cuddy had changed, but deep down, she was still the same person. However mean she was being at the moment, some part of her yearned to be kind. He had seen it in her eyes. He couldn't say the same about himself. He was the same person he had always been. The only difference was now, he had shown too much of himself to let anyone ever believe that he was capable of any goodness. Thanks to his idiocy, everyone knew what a monster he was.

Cuddy was ordering him to therapy, but he understood it wouldn't change anything. It hadn't before. No matter what, he would remain the same old bastard he'd always been.

* * *

In spite of his reservations, House was on time for his appointment the next day. Having been denied the right to drive, he'd had to take a taxi (Dominika wasn't talking to him, so he couldn't ask her). The office was easy enough to find though. Deep in the middle of town, the brownstone building had once been a family home. Converted into an office, it all seemed... nice enough, but it certainly wouldn't have been his pick. He was surprised that Cuddy had chosen this for him, too. It didn't really matter though.

He doubted anyone could help him. On the other hand, if recent events didn't spur him to change, what would? He had decided late last night that at least _attempting_ to change was better than accepting the way he was. It would have been better of course if he'd had any hope of growth, and he didn't. He was here with the assumption that nothing would be fixed. He couldn't be fixed. But there was no other choice for him. He had to be here.

Yet he couldn't stop himself from feeling nervous in the waiting room. The walls had been painted in a soothing blue, the furniture a nice neutral gray, but none of that seemed to have any effect on him. While he clearly needed therapy, it was hard to accept that. Opening himself up to someone new wouldn't be easy. And when he remembered that the doctor would keep Cuddy apprised of his situation, he felt himself tense up. House started to reach for a Vicodin but stopped himself. It wouldn't help, he thought.

When the doctor opened the door a few minutes later, he regretted that decision. It was one thing to know in theory that he would be expected to open up to a stranger. It was another thing entirely to be face to face with that person. In that moment, even though she smiled at him, Audrey Jenkins seemed like she might be impossible to talk to. She was tall, almost his height, blonde hair, dark brown eyes that seemed less sympathetic than he would have liked. His first thought about her was that she would be hard to fool. His second thought – why did he wish to fool her to begin with?

"Greg House?" she asked in a warm but professional manner. It was a stupid question, because he was the only one in the room. He nodded his head anyway and let the idiocy go uncommented on. "Come on back. Let's get started."

He stood up from the chair without much difficulty. But the short walk made him feel uneasy anyway. As she shut the door behind him, he took in the room. Everything about it was designated to make a person feel comfortable. A wall, which would have been brick at one point, was now floor to ceiling windows. It overlooked a small but private garden area. Since it was summer, some of the flowers had wilted in the heat. The grass wasn't as green as it could have been, but House supposed it would have looked nice a few months ago.

Inside the actual room was a large couch; to avoid cliché, he had no desire to lie on it. There were also two armchairs near one another and Jenkins' desk with chairs in front of and behind it.

"Sit wherever you want," she said encouragingly. He chose one of the armchairs, and she copied him. "Did you have trouble finding the place?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Good." Immediately she changed the subject. "Since this is our first time together, I'd like to establish a framework for these meetings. You may notice once we begin that I don't use methods of recording our sessions. I don't take notes while you talk. I don't film or tape, and there are no secret means of me doing so."

"Really?" he asked that, mostly because she was looking at him for some type of response.

"I have an eidetic memory. It means –"

"I know what it means." He thought he understood why Cuddy had chosen this woman to work with him. Cuddy had heard about the doctor with the photographic memory and either assumed that he would find it interesting or that the doctor wouldn't let him get away with lying.

"I find that I am of better use to my patients if I focus on them, rather than taking notes. However, after our sessions, I will make notations in a chart. That way, should you ever wish to change psychiatrists, your new doctor will have a record of –"

"That's not going to be an issue." He was confident about that. If Cuddy had said to work with Jenkins, then that would happen. There would be no switching, no alternatives, no getting out of it.

Jenkins nodded her head in concession. "No, I don't think it will be... which provides a segue to what I suppose is your main reservation, should you have one."

Although he had come with at least some intention of giving this a try, he didn't take the bait. "What reservation do you think I have?"

"You've been ordered to attend these sessions."

"Yes."

"I'm sure at this point your employer has told you that she would be kept up to date about your attendance."

He nodded his head but had to ask, "That's not an issue for you?"

"No. Dr. Cuddy will be informed of your attendance ONLY and your interest in participating in the process. The details of our sessions will remain between us."

He bristled at her argument. It sounded fine in theory, but what proof did he have that she would keep her word? It would be so easy for her to say that and then tell Cuddy everything he'd said.

Jenkins sensed his hesitation. "You don't believe me."

"I didn't say that."

"That's not exactly a denial either," she pointed out.

"No, it's not," he agreed.

"What would I have to gain by telling your boss the specifics of our sessions? Money? Sick pleasure perhaps at revealing all your secrets? Possibly, but rationally, the negative consequences would far outweigh the positive ones. I have no interest in losing my license or my patients or gaining the reputation as a doctor who can't maintain confidence."

It certainly seemed logical. If she were caught revealing confidential information, it would be costly to her professionally. Still... he couldn't outright concede the argument to her.

"Might I suggest something?" she asked cautiously. He gave her a look to suggest that he didn't exactly care. "This... is just for you to think about. You don't have to tell me I'm right or wrong about this, okay? But what if your hesitation has nothing to do with me? What if you are preoccupied about me telling Dr. Cuddy your secrets, because you _want_ her to be curious about your life?"

He would have groaned if he'd felt comfortable doing so. "Do we have to talk about her?"

"Don't we?" she threw back at him non-confrontationally.

That made him curious. "What did she tell you?"

"When she called to hire me to arrange sessions with you, I needed some convincing that there was a reason for me to agree to this. The details of that conversation aren't really that important."

"If they weren't important, wouldn't you just say what –"

"You know her better than I do. I am sure that you can create a scenario in your head of the exact nature of that dialogue. What I will tell you is that she did reveal that you two had dated and that you had been arrested afterwards."

He felt like he was being prompted to talk about the car and _that_ day. "I don't want to talk about that."

Jenkins didn't seem disappointed by that. "I'm not asking you to. Whatever the reason you are here, I'm only here for one: to be a sounding board for _you_. I will inform Dr. Cuddy of your attendance. What goes on in these sessions will be determined by you alone."

House didn't respond. He doubted very much that she didn't want to hear about how he'd almost accidentally killed his ex-girlfriend. That sounded like a psychiatrist's wet dream. The only way it could get any juicier was if he'd nearly ran Cuddy over because of issues with his mother or something equally Freudian.

Jenkins leaned back in her chair. "What are you thinking?"

"That you're full of crap."

That actually made her smile. "I'm sure. I am fully expecting that it might be difficult for you to open up. That's completely normal, Greg."

He wanted to say that reservations were normal, but this situation was anything but. He kept quiet though. He was reluctant to speak in case any of this was relayed to Cuddy. Paradoxically, if she were listening so to speak, it would be better, he realized, for him to talk. The more into this he was, the better he would look in her eyes. Then again, she had no desire to see any good in him, and he could only guess what she might do with any information she was told.

"If we're going to sit here in silence," Jenkins prodded gently. "Would you mind if I read a book?"

"You're going to read?" He scoffed at the very idea.

She shrugged. "If you don't want to talk, it's less awkward if –"

"I didn't say that." If that got back to Cuddy, if she thought he wasn't taking this seriously... he began to sweat. "Don't tell her that."

Jenkins folded her hands across her lap. "I'm not going to tell her anything."

"You've already..." He stopped himself to avoid sounding like a petulant child.

"What would be proof for you? That I have your confidence in mind for each of these sessions, what would it take to convince you?"

She honestly wanted to know, or so it seemed. But he didn't know what she would have to do. Anything she said, he would assume was a lie. If they did this for a few weeks and she didn't betray him, he wasn't sure that he would be convinced.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"Is there anything I can do to prove my trustworthiness to you?"

"... Probably not."

"So if I'm understanding you then, and you should tell me when I'm wrong: no matter what I say or do, I might be lying to you."

"Everyone does."

"Lie to you?"

He shook his head. "Lie in general."

"Sure," she agreed. "But this is more than that, isn't it? I wouldn't just be lying. I would be betraying you. Wouldn't I? If I said to you that this is confidential and then told someone about our sessions, that would be a betrayal."

"Yeah. I understand what the definition of betrayal is, thanks."

She ignored the bite in his words. "And you assume I'm capable of –"

"Isn't everyone?"

"You tell me."

He rolled his eyes at the obvious prompt. "Yeah, doc. Everyone is capable of being an asshole," he said sarcastically.

"But willing to be though? Everyone may have the ability to commit betrayal, but do you think everyone is willing to –"

"Yes," he answered full-heartedly. He'd said it to shut her up. But in telling her that, he realized it was true.

A couple months ago, when he was with Cuddy, he could have never believed that she would dump him over a drug relapse. When she'd found him on the bathroom floor with the drugs in his hand, he'd believed her when she hadn't flinched at the sight, when she'd said she'd loved him. He'd thought he'd found someone who wouldn't turn away from him when he inevitably screwed up. But he hadn't found that person at all. No doubt she'd thought she'd fallen in love with someone who'd never hurt her. But he'd done that. And if they were capable of turning against one another, after everything they'd been through, yes, anyone could turn against him. He'd never be able to think otherwise now.

Jenkins didn't ask him for his thoughts when he fell silent. She just said sympathetically, "That must be difficult to accept." He didn't agree or disagree, and noticing his reluctance, she changed the subject. "So then let me ask you. What are your expectations for these sessions together? Assuming I don't betray you or don't do it for a while, if you would prefer, what are you hoping to get out of this experience?"

"I don't know."

"Consider the question for a moment then."

"Why?"

"I think it's easier to move forward if we both have a clear picture of what we want to achieve."

He thought about what he wanted to say. The answer was simple if difficult to actually state: he wanted to be fixed. Whatever that meant. Whatever was wrong with him, he wanted that part of him to be gone: the violence, the coldness, the malice within him. He didn't want to be like that anymore. But finding the words to express that was harder than he anticipated. Admitting that he was so screwed up that he couldn't even name what was wrong with him... well, he didn't know how to do that. Trusting Jenkins had nothing to do with it anymore. If she told Cuddy what he was saying, it didn't matter. If anything, he wanted her to hear how much he wanted to change things. It was embarrassing, but at least it might make her hate him a little less.

That was what made him realize he didn't care what Jenkins' endgame was. If she told Cuddy what he said, it couldn't make things any worse than they already were. If Jenkins told _anyone_ , it couldn't make his life any more miserable. He hadn't been under any illusions about where he was with his life at the moment. But this was one more reminder that he had well and truly hit rock bottom. There was no place worse. And there was nothing shameful left to be had in having his secrets exposed.

Again though, he struggled to encompass that deep feeling of inadequacy into a sentence.

"Greg?"

"I don't know," he said lamely. "I guess... different – I want to be different when this is over."

"Different how?" He opened his mouth to speak, but words didn't come out. After a moment, he sighed in defeat. Sensing this, she changed the question. "How would you describe yourself now?"

He knew it didn't matter what he said. Regardless of the description, it would always amount to the same thing: he was the monster who had done everything he'd been accused of. There was nothing Cuddy could say that wasn't true. He'd gotten out of prison, but he was guilty. No one would ever believe otherwise, definitely not the one person who mattered. So he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Bad."

It was hardly eloquent. It wasn't the most mature way of putting it, but it was true anyway. That was how he felt.

"You would describe yourself as 'bad.'"

He nodded his head. "Yeah."

She let the thought hang in the air for a moment, then asked, "Why do you think that?"

"Because... whatever Cuddy told you about me is... the truth." Reluctantly, he admitted, "Because even though it didn't seem like that was what I was doing at the time, I _did_ try to kill her."

"And that makes you –"

"Doesn't make me a _good_ person to have done that."

"No, that was probably not your best moment." It would have made him laugh if she didn't add, "This is a good start. I'm glad to see that you're capable of seeing that you've done something wrong. A lot of people can't even get that far, Greg. This is great work. If we can though, what I would like to do is to see if we can't come up with a more specific goal."

"Why?" he asked, annoyed. He had given her an answer and didn't enjoy being told that it hadn't been good enough.

She held up her hand to stop him. "Hold on for a second. Let's go back, focus on the first part of my words. Did you hear what I said?"

"Sure."

"What did I say?"

He started to feel frustrated at the question. He had heard her and therefore, didn't like going back and belaboring the point. "You said it was a good start."

"Did you also hear me say that I'm proud that you were able to answer at all?"

"Yes. Of course."

"You seemed a little upset though when I suggested we come up with a more specific goal. Were you?"

"I wouldn't put it like that. "

"How would you put it?"

"I was annoyed. I gave an answer. You want a different answer."

"I would like... a more complete answer," Jenkins said judiciously. "I don't expect you to have one today. It can be something you think about. What qualities or habits are you really hoping to adjust? What tools would you like to have that you feel you don't have? That can be something you decide before our next session, and the answer can always change as we move forward. Okay?"

She was so optimistic about it that he found it hard to swallow. There was nothing saccharine about her delivery, but the sentiment of it made him feel uncomfortable. "Fine."

"The other thing I would like you to try is this: when someone gives you praise, I want you to really think about what they are telling you. I don't want you to discard it, so you can focus on what you perceive to be criticism. Maybe that can be our immediate goal."

He didn't treat the idea like it was a very good one, but he didn't rejected it either. "Okay."

"You don't like the suggestion."

He disagreed. "No, I think it's a needless one."

"Why?"

"Who exactly is going to be praising me any time soon?" He meant it more of a joke, but it wasn't funny. It was true, not humorous. And though he had a smirk on his face, it probably appeared to be more of a pained wince.

Jenkins answered instantly, "I just did, if you'll recall."

"Ooh, one time. Do I get a treat for that?"

"How about something to think about instead?" Then she specified, "Maybe you're not bad. Maybe it's this perception of yourself that allows you to give yourself permission to do bad things. What do you think about that?"

_To be continued_


	9. The Chain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the show doesn't belong to me.

Stepping into the hospital for the first time since the incident was harder than he'd anticipated. House had had no illusions about the people he worked with. They loved gossip, and he had given them just about the juiciest scandal any of them could ever dream of. But he'd thought that they'd have the tiniest bit of shame when they first saw him. On the contrary, most of them seemed to stop what they were doing to stare at him. Normally that type of reaction would elicit a response from him. Nothing spectacular of course, it would never amount to more than a sarcastic remark. But today he didn't even have the impetus to do that much. Cuddy could see him possibly, though he wasn't going to look around to check. Word could get back to her either way, and she could take that to mean that he was glib about what he had done.

Of course, Cuddy was perceptive enough to notice the "good boy" act. If he did what he had been told to do, she would assume arrogantly that it was to impress her.

She wouldn't be wrong.

Not entirely anyway.

It was hard to tell at any given moment how he felt about Cuddy now, if he still wanted her or resented her for her choices. On the other hand, it was very clear to him that he wanted his job. Doing it would be more complicated now, but even so, his job was one of the few things that made him happy, one of the few things he still had. If _behaving_ was what it took to stay employed, he would. As though no one was watching him, he headed to the elevator bay.

No one approached him. No one joined him on the elevator. That wasn't exactly odd on its own. There weren't many people who leapt for the chance to be near him, not among his colleagues at least. Today it simply confirmed that he was completely alone.

That didn't feel weird until he got off on his floor. He quickly noticed Wilson's assistant and a few other interns packing boxes on a couple dollies and wheeling them past House's office. There was no sign of Wilson, but House could hear Ron Simpson bitching in front of Wilson's door.

"Sampson? That's not how you spell my name. Do you even _know_ my name?" Ron started muttering then in a voice that was too low for House to hear.

It was easy to figure out what was being said when Regina, Cuddy's unofficial assistant, came up from behind Ron and asked, "You wouldn't be talking about your _boss_ now when you say, 'That vindictive bitch,' would you?"

As Ron struggled for a defense, House slipped into his office. He didn't allow himself to think about whether he should be offended by or feeling something toward Ron. House already felt overloaded. After going to therapy, he wasn't ready for anything other than work. He couldn't handle deciding whether he wanted to defend his ex-girlfriend or let someone say whatever they wanted about her. So he chose to ignore the situation altogether.

When he stepped into his office, he instantly noticed Chase seated at his desk. Taub and Foreman stood in front of him. Thirteen was nowhere to be found. House knew he needed to announce his presence. It would be awkward to just stand there and wait for someone to notice him. But there weren't really words for this type of situation, were there? Thankfully, the door shutting behind him was loud enough to draw the fellows' attention toward him. Gratitude was abruptly abandoned when he noticed that no one seemed particularly happy to see him.

When he thought about it, it wasn't that surprising. He'd given them all a career, but each had reasons to reconsider whether that had been a good thing. Had Chase's loyalty been worth losing Cameron, the woman he had chased after for so long? Did Foreman look at his life and wonder how he'd gone from the man capable of being a leader to the doctor who had been unable to escape from his mentor's shadow? He had tried so hard not to be like House, but no one saw Foreman as his own man. They all thought he was tainted.

And those two were the luckiest of his associates. Kutner and Amber were dead. Thirteen had been in jail. Cameron had quit her job and fallen off the face of the earth. Taub was the only one House could consider unaffected, but he wasn't exactly someone House could take pride in. It certainly wouldn't make anyone else feel better about working for him. Of course, they would be disappointed he'd come back.

"Just got a new patient," Foreman said for lack of a better way to end the silence.

House dropped his book bag on the lounge chair. "Great." He was almost hoping for unenthused, but he sounded more eager to get started than anything else. Instead of being detached, he came across as desperate to move past the awkwardness currently enveloping his office. "Where's Thirteen?"

"Meeting with her probation officer," Chase explained.

"To make sure she can work with you," Taub added, earning him disapproving looks from both Foreman and Chase. "Guys, I know you both want to get in her pants, but he's gonna find out soon enough. Might as well tell him the –"

"I don't want her back," Foreman said without any emotion in his voice.

House frowned dramatically. "That's a shame. No offense to Chameron in its heyday, but Foreteen was clearly the romance for our times. And I'm not sure I can get behind Chase and Thirteen as a couple, because all possible portmanteaus seem vastly inferior. I mean Chirteen? Sounds like something a beaver does to attract a mate."

"I think," Chase said agitatedly. "That it would be a good idea for us to not talk about relationships while we're working together."

Everyone understood what he meant, and immediately they all fell silent again. Obviously, no one wanted to discuss what had happened with Cuddy, what House had done to her, or why he was back. For that, House normally would have been appreciative. But if not talking about it meant they would just allude to it when he said something they didn't like, House would have rather they discuss it outright. Of all things they could hold over his head, _that_ was unbearable.

And yet, he had no means of stopping it from happening. He couldn't talk to them about Cuddy. Even if he wanted to, his mouth seemed incapable of opening and forming the words necessary to explain what he'd done. There was no justification that would give him total control over his team. Cuddy had ensured that he _couldn't_ have absolute power anymore. The dynamics between them completely upended, House could only look away miserably and wait for Chase to change the subject. He had no other means to fight now.

Eventually, Chase relaxed and dismissed the issue with a simple – "Thirteen will join us when she can. In the meantime, we'll focus on our patient."

He handed House a file. Before House had a chance to read it, Chase summed up where they were. "Don Cassidy, thirty-two. Went to the doctor's after coughing up blood. Attending physician noted clubbed fingers, and the patient also complained of pain in his shoulder that didn't exist prior to his persistent cough."

"Sounds like lung cancer," House muttered, tossing the file back onto the table. "Hand it over to Wilson, or does he not work here anymore?"

An uncomfortable pause passed before Foreman said simply, "He's still here, just asked Cuddy to change the location of his office. She obviously agreed."

"Obviously," House repeated, stifling back the scoff he wanted to make. "Still. Sounds like lung cancer. Hand the case over to Wilson."

"No." Chase sounded like a little boy standing up to his mommy.

"Why not?"

"For one, I'm in charge of this department now. Also, if you'd bother to read the case file, you'd notice that it's a little more complicated than just cancer. The patient has FOP."

"How advanced?" House asked, knowing that the answer, based on the patient's age, wouldn't be good.

"The guy bumped his hip into the edge of a table three months ago and has been wheelchair bound since," Taub answered. "His family physician had a CT scan done, shows lesions on his lungs. He felt he couldn't safely get a biopsy, so we got the case."

Before House could even offer his opinion, Chase stepped in. "I was telling the others that I'd like to redo the CT scan – make sure we're looking at an accurate picture. PET scan and blood work as well."

"You don't think it's cancer," House deduced.

"Lesions could be from a fungal –"

" _Or_ –"

"That's the plan. Once we get more up-to-date information, we can decide the medical ramifications of attempting a biopsy or bronchoscopy," Chase stated with a sense of finality that made it clear House wasn't to argue. "I will get started on that. Taub, Foreman, you go search for the home. If it is a fungus, he probably hasn't been able to leave his house much. Source of the fungus would more than likely be there."

"Right," Foreman said in agreement. Taub nodded his head as well, and they quickly left like they didn't want to be around for the rest of the conversation.

Figuring he felt the same, House turned to leave also. Chase instantly stopped him though by saying, "While we do that, you can catch up on those."

Confused House turned back around, his eyes following the direction in which Chase was pointing. In the fellows' office were a couple boxes of paperwork. "They're your billings. You'll get that settled away and do your clinic hours. If we need your help, we'll come find you."

There was no missing the implication there. Chase thought House was unnecessary. Maybe there was reason to suspect that. At some point, Cuddy had clearly put him in charge. Thinking he would be running the department, Chase had told himself that he could do this on his own, that he didn't need House. House wanted to believe otherwise, but Chase had done this for a while now. He _was_ good at his job. It was possible that House would be unnecessary in diagnosing the patient, and if that happened… then what?

House clenched his jaw and refused to consider the future. The present was more than enough as it was for him to deal with. Tempted as he was to rail against what was going on, he did not. Instead he just nodded his head curtly and went into the fellows' office to get started. For all he knew, this was something Cuddy had told Chase to make House do. Either way, she would expect him to do as Chase instructed.

At that moment, as he sat down to do _paperwork_ , House felt that he didn't even have his job anymore. He was here, mostly as a mascot though, a prop, a puppet to make Chase seem more legitimate than he was.

House almost longed to be back in prison. It would be less embarrassing than this felt.

No, he corrected after a moment. That wasn't true. Just the thought of Gene made him queasy. This wasn't perfect, but it was better than jail. It had to be.

Sighing he pulled out the top of file in the box closest to him. Boredom hit him before he even opened to look at the first page. He had to do this though. There were no other options.

But secretly he hoped Chase, over his head and needing help, would interrupt him at any moment.

* * *

Cuddy got the distinct impression that Rachel wasn't telling the truth when she said she didn't feel well. Every time Cuddy got out of bed to go to the bathroom or make tea in the hotel room's kitchenette, Rachel threw a fit. But whenever Cuddy returned to her, Rachel seemed perfectly normal. She was chatty and affectionate, demonstrating that nothing was wrong.

It was probably bad to let the lie continue. Rachel had started complaining about her tummy hurting last night, a little after Chase had stopped by the hotel to grab the boxes Cuddy had taken from House's office not too long ago. It had been Chase's idea, and that alone had made Cuddy happy. She'd felt like she might actually have an ally in that department. Relief didn't last long however, because nearly the second he was gone, she'd had to focus on Rachel. Cuddy had found Rachel convincing enough at the time. She'd decided to stay home, because Rachel had seemed so agitated at the thought of being without her mother. Cuddy hadn't had the energy to deny her daughter what she wanted. But now… it was apparent that the illness had been a ruse. Cuddy knew it was wrong to pretend otherwise.

On the other hand, she'd already given Marina the day off. There were worse things than _not_ being at the hospital when House returned too. Cuddy felt like she should be there in a show of strength or defiance. But there would be plenty of opportunities to demonstrate that she could withstand House being in _her_ hospital. Besides, if Rachel was pretending to be sick, then it was important for Cuddy to address that situation.

So far though, there hadn't been much of that. The first part of the morning had been spent mostly in bed with Rachel curled at her side. Cuddy was still trying to find an age appropriate way to talk about what was happening.

Deep in thought, she was forced out of it when Rachel tugged on her shirt. "Mommy," she whined.

Cuddy looked down at the wriggling little girl who was half buried beneath the covers. "What's wrong, honey?" Rachel didn't answer. She just buried her face in Cuddy's chest. Cuddy pulled her closer and kissed her forehead. "You like snuggling with your mommy? Is that it?" Again, there was no answer.

Cuddy sighed into Rachel's hair. Maybe a response wasn't entirely necessary. Of course, Rachel would like to be close to her mother. After everything she'd been exposed to, how could it be surprising that she would want to be near her? It wasn't. But at the same time, Cuddy found it concerning. Rachel had gone from saying she didn't feel well to acting fine to being quiet and sullen. That wasn't like Rachel. There was nothing healthy or normal about the speed in which she could go from happy to sad. It might have been understandable, but that wasn't the same thing as good.

And the worst part about it was that Cuddy could tell, to the depth of her core, that she had _no_ idea how to fix it. It was difficult to predict what Rachel wanted when her mood kept changing. In this particular moment, she seemed okay with being held close. But there was no telling when that would suddenly stop being true.

There was no permanent solution either. Rachel wanted to go home, but that wasn't ever going to happen. Even if it did, it wouldn't be right for Rachel, because _he_ wouldn't be there.

"Mommy," Rachel said quietly, thankfully pulling Cuddy's mind away from _him_.

"What?"

Rachel started squirming around, her feet lightly kicking Cuddy. "I wanna play."

"Does that mean you're feeling better? Your tummy doesn't hurt anymore?"

Rachel's cheeks turned pink. Reluctantly she admitted, "Uh huh."

Cuddy chose to let this revelation go uncommented upon, for now anyway. Instead she said, "Good. What do you want to play?"

"I don't know."

"How about we color a little bit?"

The first suggestion was accepted easily enough. Finding a pack of crayons and piece of paper in the boxes strewn about the hotel room was harder. Keeping Rachel calm while Cuddy looked around for what she needed was even more difficult.

"I wanna color!" Rachel eventually shouted in frustration.

Exasperated herself, Cuddy replied tiredly, "Don't talk to your mommy like that. I'm doing the best I can." Just as she felt a glare being aimed her way, her hand closed around a packet of white construction paper. Cuddy pulled it out of the box with ease and set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch. When she looked back in the same box though, there were no crayons to be found.

"Give me a minute, honey," she said before Rachel could complain. "I just need to find your crayons." That was easier said than done however. When the phone rang five minutes later, Cuddy hastily gave Rachel a pen to use. "Here. Mommy needs to –"

"No! I don't like blue. Don't wanna –"

"It's temporary, Rachel. Just… draw a picture of the ocean or… something. The sky even. Mommy has to get the phone."

Rachel didn't exactly embrace those suggestions, but Cuddy didn't give her a chance to object. She quickly reached for her cell phone and answered the call. "Hello?"

"Congratulations. You got the house."

"Dana. Hi." The words came out without any joy. She'd made an offer knowing she would never be able to return to her old home. But that didn't mean she'd had her heart set on the five-bedroom house along Carnegie Lake. Her offer had been borderline insulting, but apparently that didn't matter. She wasn't sure how to feel about it now.

"You sound nervous, but you don't need to be. They accepted your bid on the condition that they won't provide any allowances for repairs and fixes the inspection discovers are needed. And you still have the right to walk away," Dana reminded.

Cuddy began to look around for the crayons once more. "I know that," she said almost impatiently. "So when can we get an inspector out there?"

"This afternoon if you're interested."

"Really?" She was surprised it could be done so quickly. Dana offered an explanation – something along the lines of having a friends with benefits (and real estate benefits) relationship with one of the local inspectors. But Cuddy wasn't exactly paying attention; Rachel was becoming visibly agitated at being forced to use a pen, and Cuddy just wanted to avoid a meltdown altogether if she could. Letting Dana talk, Cuddy searched through another box. Still there was nothing, and Rachel began to whine.

"Mommy…." She exaggerated the word into a long shriek that made Cuddy's skin crawl. It more than drowned out whatever Dana was saying.

"Dana, hold on. Give me a second." Cuddy turned her attention to her daughter. "Rachel!" she snapped warningly. The tone instantly shut Rachel up, which allowed Cuddy to say more calmly, "I can't find them, honey. If you want to color so badly, you're just going to have to get up off your little bottom and help Mama look. Okay?"

She anticipated a lot of complaining, but Rachel took the order well. Perhaps out of boredom, she offered no fight at all. Instead she got up right away and toddled toward a box Cuddy hadn't noticed before. It was jammed between the legs of the giant stuffed giraffe, which they'd pulled out of storage, in the corner of the room. Naturally, the second Rachel reached into the box, she found the crayons.

"There you go," Cuddy said with forced cheer. "You found them!"

The congratulations went right past Rachel. It was as though Cuddy hadn't said anything at all. Rachel just headed straight back to the coffee table and began drawing with the same seriousness an artist might have when working on a masterpiece. Cuddy wasn't sure if this was just childish dedication or if she should be concerned. More concerned, she corrected.

She was aware though that she still had Dana on the phone.

"Sorry. I'm back. There was a crayon emergency."

"You're with your daughter? I would have expected you to be at work."

"Not today. So if we can get the inspection over with, I'd appreciate it."

"We can," Dana assured her. "How about two o'clock?"

"That's fine." There was nothing about Cuddy's voice that sounded committed or excited. She was perfunctory, and the remainder of the conversation didn't come across any different.

"See you then."

"See you at two."

For a second, it could almost be believed that things were settled. The moment Cuddy hung up the phone though, dread came over her. There was nothing requiring her to purchase the home, but that didn't matter. It just didn't feel right.

Nothing did.

And yet there was no escaping this. She'd have to resolve her living situation some time, and for Rachel's sake, it would be better to accomplish that inevitable task soon. Moving would be an adjustment, but at least then, there wouldn't be any _more_ changes to deal with. The thought made Cuddy sigh. It was clear to her that, if the house could be suitable, it would have to do. Rachel needed this to be over.

As if to prove that point, Rachel suddenly groaned in frustration. One of her tiny hands shoved the crayons away while the other crumpled up the drawing she'd been working on.

"Why'd you do that?" Cuddy asked in a mix of sympathy, curiosity, and dismay.

"Don't wanna color no more."

There were two ways to approach the situation: to ignore it or to address it head on. Since she had no desire for a fight, Cuddy was willing to accept Rachel's explanation. At least for now… it disturbed her how often she had started to say that.

Cuddy didn't doubt that House was the root of Rachel's problems. Clearly he was. And eventually something would have to be done about that. Cuddy would have to find a way to fix the situation with her daughter, heal her somehow. Today though, the solution would remain elusive, and until there was a way to make everything better, the best thing to do was to not antagonize Rachel.

"Okay. What would you like to do?"

The question was probably not the best one for a two year old. There was a good chance the answer would be one Cuddy hated. She was relieved then when, after a moment's contemplation, Rachel answered, "Read a story."

"That's a good idea. Let's do that."

They settled down together on the penthouse balcony. As Rachel found a comfortable position in Cuddy's lap and carefully opened the book, Cuddy looked out at the scenery. It was a nice summer day, the kind made for curling up with your child in the middle of the warm afternoon. But even so, it seemed inevitable that Rachel would throw a tantrum and ruin the moment. That obviously wouldn't be her fault, not after what she'd been subjected to recently.

Nevertheless, Cuddy braced herself for the impending storm.

* * *

Ninety minutes later, House had only made it through a few of the case files. Given that he'd usually left his charts for someone else to handle, he hadn't realized how empty some of them were. Well... he'd _realized_. He just hadn't cared to keep the paperwork in order if he could rely on one of his fellows or even Cuddy to help him out later. Now that it was his responsibility once more, it took him a while to make sure that everything looked okay before feeling comfortable enough in setting it aside. He had to double check online charts, carbon copies of his prescription pads, even call a few people – all of which was pretty easy to do if difficult to _want_ to do. It was never far from his mind that he couldn't cast the work aside. He'd promised Cuddy that he would _behave_ himself. Now that it was clear that Chase had new loyalties, House couldn't depend on him to lie for him.

House tried not to think about how it was another thing his actions had lost him. But it was hard _not_ to do that when he was only looking through charts. Sure, there was the case, but that wasn't all that interesting either. No matter the outcome, their patient was slowly turning into a living skeleton. That was going to end in death and fairly soon based on the patient's age. Of course, there was something fascinating about that, but if there were no hope in truly fixing the patient, all this was was prolonging the inevitable.

But it wouldn't have mattered if there'd been a better case selection. House still would be sitting in the fellows' office with various charts strewn out in front of him. He'd still have an afternoon in the clinic to look forward to. He wasn't in charge, making the decisions that mattered. Thus far, his suggestions had been completely ignored, the option they were going for nothing more than "let's re-run the tests." He was a bystander and a witness to the least interesting choices possible.

In short, this was terrible. It was better than being in prison, but that hardly said much about what he was doing.

He kept working anyway.

An hour later, Foreman and Taub returned with a plastic trash bag in hand, and House was relieved for the distraction. House stood up awkwardly. He didn't want it to seem like he'd been waiting around for their return, although he had. Calling further attention to that truth was his leg. Cuddy had banished all toys and items of interest from his office, so he'd had no choice but to sit and work on his case. Without breaks, he hadn't had a chance to move around. His thigh muscles felt tight and achy, and he longed to take a Vicodin. But he wasn't sure if he should. Cuddy had said his access would be limited. Since she had no interest in showing him the slightest bit of kindness, he had to believe that his prescriptions would be restricted severely.

"What'd you find?" he asked out loud while internally assessing his pain level. It hurt, but maybe he could wait an hour before taking something. Perhaps he could go longer. What if he had to?

Foreman didn't say anything, so Taub offered, "We have to wait... for Chase."

"Says who?"

"I do," Chase said as he entered the fellows' office from the hallway. "What did you find?"

"Vodka bottles," Foreman answered. "Lots of them."

Taub dropped the trash bag onto the ground and opened it up just enough for the rest of the team to see nearly a dozen Pinnacle whipped cream vodka bottles.

"Well, that's embarrassing, but it would explain the clubbed fingers," House said. "Cirrhosis of the liver would do that. Find anything moldy?"

Chase was visibly uncomfortable with House taking the lead, which House secretly enjoyed.

"No," Taub said after an awkward moment. "The place was clean."

This seemed to make Chase even more distressed, especially when he had to admit, "Maybe it really is cancer." House would have gloated at being right while the pretty boy was wrong. He would have pointed out that it didn't matter if Cuddy had put Chase in charge; there would always be a better leader for the team in the room. There wasn't an opportunity for it though, as Chase quickly handed over the PET and CT scans. House took them, preparing to look at them himself, but that wasn't what Chase wanted. "Take these to Wilson. See what he has to say."

House knew it was in his best interest to listen, but he paused in doing so. Part of him wanted to see his best friend... ex-best friend. He wanted the chance to explain or at least apologize. An even larger piece of him knew though that Wilson would be in no mood to forgive him. There was no explanation that would undo what had been done, not while Cuddy was still furious. He could appreciate that he had done something that warranted extended amounts of anger. He _could_. For that very reason though, he just wanted to move past it, to have gone through the uncomfortable fighting and gotten to the good part where all was forgiven.

There was no chance that would happen today. With that being the case, it seemed to House's benefit to ignore the problem altogether. If he could make it through a week or two of dealing with work and the way things had changed here, maybe he would then feel okay with adding his issues with Wilson to the mix.

He tried to get out of it. "Maybe –"

"You were the one who suggested it, House, so you can be the one to take it to him," Chase said without any sympathy.

House attempted to make a joke out of it. "Using the crippled guy to run your errands? That's harsh, even for you."

"Thirteen's gone. She's not coming back." Chase's voice was even, but the resentment for House was palpable.

"That's too bad." Now House sounded like the resentful one.

"She felt it was in her best interest to leave now before it reflected poorly on her probation, so –"

"Bummer," House said sarcastically. "Who are you going to flirt with now? Taub? You're running out of chicks on our team to seduce."

"No, I'm running out of patience actually. You've cost us a team member. We have to work around _your_ inability to get along with _our_ boss, so truly the least you can do is attempt to make up with the one staff member whose expertise we currently need."

"Pretty sure that's not going to happen."

"Then _I'm_ pretty sure I'll have to go to Cuddy and tell her that this situation isn't working out. And who do you think she'll defend to the board about this?"

Foreman and Taub watched the exchange with distinct interest. House wasn't sure why they cared so much about it; it was clear already how this was going to end. Chase had an unbeatable argument. House could say whatever he wanted, but the truth was Chase would win every time now that he had Cuddy in his back pocket. Defeated House picked up his cane. "I don't know where I'm going."

"Ron Simpson's old office."

"B.R.B.," House said with a sneer.

He wished he'd taken the Vicodin the second he stepped out of the room. When Cuddy had laid out her plan for him initially, he'd understood then that it would suck. He wasn't used to having so many restrictions, and it was clear from the very beginning that he would rail against his restraints only to be forced to accept them. He'd comprehended it in theory anyway. In reality... it was worse than he could have imagined. It was harder. And the worst part about it was that he had no one else to blame but himself. Cuddy was doing what she felt was necessary to protect herself. Wilson and Chase were indignant for legitimate reasons; House had hurt people they cared about and in a way made their jobs harder for them.

It was all his fault.

No one else was responsible for this, something that would be far easier to accept if he were numbed with narcotics. He could hardly go back into the office now though. His back was to Chase and the rest of the team, but he could feel them watching him, to see what he would do. Ironically that just made House want to act up more. Their stares called forth his exhibitionism, but he had to ignore that urge.

He needed to earn back Cuddy's trust, he reminded himself. In the very least, he needed to remind her that he could be a valued hospital asset when allowed some freedom. Having her friendship again was out of the question, but he could try to rebuild their professional relationship, couldn't he? Probably not, he realized, but for his own sake, he knew that he needed to try.

The elevator ride seemed long and replete with recriminations for the way he had behaved the last time he saw Wilson. House hadn't heard much about how Wilson was doing. Surely he'd hurt himself trying to dodge the car as it drove through Cuddy's home. The memory of that moment was currently fuzzy, or maybe House just didn't want to think about that day much. Had Wilson been bleeding when House walked away from Cuddy? Had he been grabbing at his wrist? Was he okay now?

House didn't want to know the answer when he was standing in front of Wilson's door. Unlike Ron Simpson's incorrect nameplate, Wilson didn't have his up yet. A piece of paper was taped to the door in its place. This was where House was supposed to be, but it was hardly where he wanted to be.

Nervously he raised his hand and knocked.

There was a brief moment of silence followed by the muffled sounds of Wilson, presumably, getting up from his desk and heading towards the door. House grimaced at the fight that was about to happen and swallowed hard. Bile caught in the back of his throat, and he gripped his cane tightly. As the door began to open, he braced himself for a punch to the face or Wilson's hands shoving him away. This wasn't going to end well….

Thankfully or perhaps unthankfully, Wilson didn't hit him. When the door had opened enough for Wilson to see who it was, his eyes narrowed in disgust. That warm gaze that had once been so inviting only narrowed on House now. Wilson's jaw tensed as he clenched down on his teeth. It was obviously all Wilson could do not to attack House or yell at him, and House believed that it was a kindness he didn't deserve.

Wilson didn't invite him in or show any indication that he would be receptive to that. House knew better than to try.

"What do you want?"

House's mouth dried out at the question. His lips parted to say what he had come here for, but the need to apologize seemed more pressing than anything else. And that desire got tangled in the job he was supposed to be doing, leaving him unable to articulate anything.

"I don't have time for this. So if you have something to say, please do or go away."

It was the push House needed. "I have a patient I need you to look at." He was disappointed in himself for talking about the case.

He was a coward.

And Wilson seemed to share his opinion.

"A patient." He scoffed. "Of course." House tried to hand him the files, but Wilson refused to take them. "You don't have to play games, House. We both know there's no patient."

"You think I'm making this up?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. You just suddenly have a patient?"

"You're an oncologist. Cancer isn't exactly a rare –"

"Get inside," Wilson snapped, abruptly opening his office door. House shifted on his feet but couldn't find the courage to take that first step. "Look, I'm not going to fight in a _hallway_ in front of patients. You want to have this conversation or not?"

He didn't. But walking away would only make things worse between them. "Fine," House said, brushing past Wilson. "But just so we're clear, I _do_ have a patient who could use your advice. And if you don't believe me," House said, tossing the files onto Wilson's desk. "You can ask anyone on my team."

"I'll do that," Wilson challenged while he shut the door behind him.

With that bit of business settled as well as it could be, House was left with the _other_ matter to discuss. However that was a topic that required care when broaching. It had been hard enough to talk about it with Cuddy, but in a way, it felt even more difficult with Wilson now. Of everyone involved, only Wilson had seemed to be under the notion that House wasn't really _that_ bad. After their break up, Cuddy might have believed that _deep down_ House was a decent person. But Wilson was the only person who had continued to see goodness in him in his post-break-up state. In spite of everything House had done to him in the past, Wilson had always been his champion, his pardoner.

His one true friend.

House didn't know how to apologize for proving that that belief was poorly founded.

Again.

Wilson looked like he didn't care how House did it, because it would never be enough for him. Yet Wilson asked demandingly, "Are you going to say something?"

House sighed. "I'm –"

"If you're getting ready to apologize, it's a waste of time, House."

"I was going to say, I'm trying to figure out what I want to say."

Wilson put his hands on his hips. "Well, 'I'm sorry' would be a good place to start, wouldn't it?"

"You just said –"

"You are an _idiot_. You could have killed her."

"You think I don't know that?"

"Oh, so you were trying to kill her."

"No," House said hurriedly. "Of course not."

"You say that as though it's self-evident, and I've got to tell you that it's not, and it wasn't."

"Obviously I wasn't thinking." The explanation was hardly sufficient.

"Well _obviously_. That makes it okay, I guess. Sure, you're a grown man in your fifties, but you weren't thinking about what happens when cars and homes collide. Who could have guessed what would occur? That makes total sense. All's forgiven. Let's have dinner tonight." Wilson wasn't rolling his eyes, but he might as well have been. The sarcasm was so obvious, so potent that it hurt. When he was like this, there was no getting through to him. Forgiveness wouldn't be allowed through the hard wall of self-righteous anger, and House didn't have the argument necessary to get through to Wilson. One probably didn't even exist.

Still House tried as best he could, uttering a lame, "I didn't say that it was okay."

"Yet here you are."

"Because... I don't want to lose you as my friend."

"That's already happened."

"It was an accident. If I could take it back, I would. I was –"

"Do you think I care about that?" Wilson asked with a smile twisted in cruelty. "Do you honestly believe that anyone who has been around you and had their life completely ruined cares that you never mean to do what you do? Do you think that when you _killed_ Amber, I just thought –"

"Don't go there," House implored, not for his own sake but Wilson's. House had never believed that he'd fully received Wilson's forgiveness. Wilson had stopped being angry with him; they'd become friends once more, but House had thought, and could see it to be true now, that that had more to do with Wilson's need to move on. Wilson couldn't actively hate House without it taking a personal toll on himself. Reconciliation had had more to do with Wilson's own health than a desire to have House in his life again.

Habit had taken them the rest of the way back to normal. Things had turned out okay. House's mental breakdown had elicited enough of Wilson's pity to push back any lingering resentment. Everything went back to the way it was before. And now House had ruined it.

"We _are_ there!" Wilson bitterly pointed at him. "You could have killed Cuddy."

The guilt was too much, and House pushed back, "Oh I get it. This is a sisters before misters sort of thing, yeah?"

"Sure. Go ahead. Make a joke out of it, because this is just so funny to you, isn't it?"

House shook his head emphatically. "No. Wilson, no, I don't."

"Well, I don't believe you."

"Please. I –"

"I don't see what the point of this is," Wilson interrupted flatly. "Anything you say is a lie in my eyes right now. Until I see even a _shred_ of remorse from you, there's no point in talking. We shouldn't even try."

"Don't –"

"I'm done, House. I know I've said that a thousand times before, but this time, I mean it."

With that, Wilson reached behind him and wrenched open his office door. Again, House hesitated to leave.

"Just let me explain," House pleaded.

"I don't want to hear it."

"But I –"

"Get out before I call security." Wilson pretended to contemplate the matter. "I wonder what Cuddy would say if I had to do that…."

Once again, House had no choice but to do as he was told.

* * *

She carefully plucked Rachel out of her car seat. Having skipped her naptime, the little girl had fallen within seconds of being in car. Cuddy wasn't going to wake her up prematurely by foolishly yanking her out of the vehicle. There was a brief moment of distress when Cuddy closed the door behind her; Rachel began to stir, and Cuddy had to rub her back softly to coax her back into a peaceful slumber. Thankfully, she was early to the inspection, so no one had to witness the potential disaster.

The second Dana and the inspector got there, Cuddy half-warned them, "Wake her, and I'm not taking the house."

Dana smiled. "Don't worry about that. We'll be as quick and quiet as mice."

They did their very best to keep to their word. As they went room to room, the inspector practically whispered the few things he noticed. The seal on a window in the living room was broken. An outlet in the kitchen didn't work. The windows weren't energy efficient, which would up her gas bill in the wintertime and electricity during the summer. A few of the shingles could benefit from being replaced.

Before Dana could even ask what she thought, Cuddy decided that there was nothing wrong with the home itself that should prevent her from purchasing it. Indecision seemed to grab hold of her anyway, made her think that it just wasn't _fair_ to make her do this.

She should have been in _her_ home.

Rachel should have been happy, without anything troubling her.

Their lives were supposed to be different. It wasn't supposed to be like _this_.

An inkling of self-pity dawned on her before she forced herself to focus on the issue at hand. Her home was gone. That life was gone. What she needed now was a new place to raise her daughter. Whether she wanted it or not, Cuddy felt self-discipline grab hold of her. Unemotionally, she surveyed the home while standing in the kitchen.

Could she imagine Hanukkah here? Rachel running through this very kitchen every morning? Would there be tea parties in the backyard and dinner parties in the formal dining room? Could they be happy in this place?

Cuddy was skeptical.

Then she realized that there was no reason why House ever had to know that this beautiful home was hers. She would never let him see the address, and they could be safe, away from him.

She smiled slightly at the thought, and Dana instantly understood what that meant.

"Let's finalize this, shall we?" she proposed.

Cuddy honestly meant it when she agreed.

_To be continued_


End file.
